The Nightmare
by Mark Daniel
Summary: Sequel to 'His Waking Life.' The story takes place primarily during Season 4, however, it strays from the show more than its predecessor. Goren, Eames and Nicole Wallace are the dominant characters.
1. Chapter 1

A.N. These characters are not mine.

* * *

**The Nightmare**

(The sequel to 'His Waking Life')

_Chapter One_

October 15, 2004 - Brooklyn, New York

_This is a story about deep psychological torment. About slipping away into the darkness._

_It all came to pass in the autumn of 2004 on an unremarkable October day. Initially, the morning had passed without notice - and then it all came unraveled when he finally found himself back at his modest Brooklyn apartment. There was a voice message left on his machine . . . _

_Upon reflection, the slow downturn could be traced back to the start of a new year. Just less than a month after Robert O. Goren had finally managed to find a modicum of peace. Before the turn of the new year, contentment had come in small victories: having Alexandra Eames back as his partner post-materntiy leave; a quiet, private Christmas celebration with his mother outside of the Carmel Ridge setting; and his gift exchange with Eames: he was quite happy with her reaction to the Monet print, and in turn, he was uniquely touched by the iconic pendant (a family relic) she'd given him._

_But by mid-January, he was soon to discover that his hard earned 'grace period of inner-contentment' was merely the calm before the storm._

_

* * *

_

January 2004 - One Police Plaza

It came at a time when he and Eames were embroiled in a case that defied logic: a string of robberies with victims who claimed that they were coerced by a third party. The latest vic barely made it past the bank's doors before a homemade bomb abruptly ended his life.

Goren and Eames were fresh off the trail when Deakins motioned them into his office.

"The jury just came in," Deakins was seated behind his desk, the phone receiver held snug to his left ear.

Upon reflection, Goren could only remember small details about that moment: Eames dressed in a warm red blazer, her face emblazoned with hope, her tongue sharp as ever, "I hope Nicole likes the scones at Bedford prison."

Goren suppressed a smile, while unconsciously kneading his leather notepad cover like a cat.

And upon further reflection, that small second in time (before Deakins announced the verdict) was the turning point. After which, feelings of contentment, peace and hopefulness began to be quickly replaced by confusion, fear and intense negative catastrophic thinking. It was as if the light-switch had been personally fingered by Nicole Wallace, and she was only too obliging to reignite his obsessive compulsive personality disorder.

"Okay, thanks," Deakins expression remained serious as he placed the receiver down, cautiously rising from his chair, "Not guilty on all counts."

This is where Goren's memory was essentially erased. He remembered turning away from Deakins, towards Eames, their eyes made contact for a brief second before he continued to turn towards the door. Then there was utter silence, as if his brain shut down all sensorial information. His nose flared, his fingers dug into the notepad, his pulse quickened and he felt the intense need to run, pace, scream . . . only to re-discover that the exit of his captain's office opened into the throng of his colleagues busily working at and around their desks. There was no escape, no place for reaction, lest he prove once again that he was the unstable departmental whack-job.

He remembered how Eames subtly guided him back on track, back to the case on hand, back to the bar long after most of his fellow officers deserted the eleventh floor.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Eames muttered after she placed another empty glass against the hard bar countertop, "what money can buy."

"Eames," he spoke quietly, looking away from her to hide a grimace, "we, uh, we did what we could, you testified . . ."

"Bullshit," Eames fired off to no one in particular, "I'll take another, Jimmy," she motioned loosely to the bartender.

"Come on," he spoke gently, "you've, uh . . . we've had enough."

"Not nearly enough," Eames squinted, focusing on holding his gaze, "don't pretend that I don't know what this is doing to you."

He lowered his eyelids to avoid her piercing soft brown irises.

"And don't think for a second," Eames shook her head stiffly, "that I don't understand the implications of this bullshit verdict."

He was immediately thankful for the distraction of the delivery of Eames' umpteenth drink, "No, Jimmy," he placed down several twenties, "we're good here, she's done."

With that, they hobbled out into another cold January evening and hailed a cab.

"You take it," he chewed tentatively at his lower lip, afraid she was going to let him have it for quietly escorting her out of the bar.

She turned into him, her face suddenly transformed from radiating anger to immediate concern, "are you going to be okay?"

He nodded his head, "Are you safe to get into your place?"

She nodded, "I'll see you mañana."

And with that, the yellow cab crept off into the concrete jungle, while he found himself alone near the curb, his frozen breath his only company.

Chronically short on cash, (which was the other reason he lead Eames off into the first cab), he knew he could still make it home on public transport.

* * *

October 15, 2004 - Brooklyn, New York

_But that was over nine months ago, and now, as he sat down heavily into his well used armchair, he felt like he was finally at the threshold of true panic. She was back. He'd taken something from her and now she (Nicole) was ready to take something back from him. She'd finally found his Achilles heel . . . and now he was left alone to come to the uncomfortable realization that the tables had turned, and it was his turn to be the prey._


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

October 15, 2004 - Brooklyn, New York

_The voice that emanated from his voice messaging machine set his hair on end . . . "You've been a naughty boy Bobby, (pause) you took my little Ella away from me, (longer pause), no one . . . and of all people you should know better, no one crosses me like that and gets away with it. You should know Bobby, that I've got more than your social and birth-date, I now know many personal details about your life that you don't want anyone to know about. I know intimate details Bobby . . . very personal things. I know who you've been fucking, and . . . and while you were fucking her, I know who you were fantasizing about while you were fucking her. That's right . . . just like Croyden, I sent my new girl onto you. Everything she knows, I know. So, do you really want to trace this call? _

The blood drained from his face when he realized Nicole had blindsided him a second time. She'd hand picked a woman at a time when he was vulnerable, lonely and desperate for any pick-me-up.

And while most believed that Nicole Wallace had perished, he'd never made that assumption, he knew better. What he didn't know was that Nicole had been biding her time, looking for the perfect opportunity to ambush him. And this time, (even more so than Croyden) she'd succeeded in the most despicable way . . . in a way that prevented him from running to the person he trusted, the person who could save him and give him the stability he desperately needed.

* * *

May 2004 – Manhattan, New York

"I'm worried you're going to jump into the Hudson."

"I'm okay," his body twitched uncomfortably as a shiver ran through him, "I just need some time alone, okay?"

Eames nodded, but remained at his side.

"I'll catch the subway," he reiterated, "really. . . I'm okay."

"That's what you always say," she shook her head slowly, "the problem is that I know how much of yourself you put into this case, and that woman, Nelda Carlson . . . she was sick, so sick, Bobby."

"I, I …"

"No, Bobby," Eames stated firmly, "I can't believe you can just get into her head, or that you can play the role that you did and pull out . . . like nothing happened."

"I meant what I said . . . I told her that I didn't mean for her to see it, and, I know how to pull out when I need to. It's not, uh, not the first time . . ."

"Jesus Bobby," Eames was doubling her pace just to flank him, "you're not a robot."

He needed Eames to leave him alone. He needed privacy – the concept of sharing his pain with others was non-existent.

In the past, Eames had been so good at reading him, but right now she was bordering on badgering, and for some strange reason, she wouldn't let up. He couldn't helped but wonder if this was all residual, residual from the time when they tried being more than partners.

"Eames!" He warned.

"Don't give me this crap," she growled back, "you've been in a fricken cloud of misery ever since Nicole got off the hook. I mean, this is a new low, I haven't seen you so moody since . . . Croyden."

_Fuck. Why did she have to bring that up?_

And with that he blazed on ahead of her, long legs increasing the distance between them, his right hand waving at her: his most blatant non-verbal warning sign that screamed; 'stay behind.'

"I miss my partner," she called out after him, loud enough to ensure it was the last thing he heard as he near sprinted down down the sidewalk to the nearest underground subway platform.

* * *

October 15, 2004 - Brooklyn, New York

He poured himself a second drink, and played over every verbal and non-verbal statement he'd relayed to the woman he'd briefly had a relationship with over the past month, a.k.a. 'Nicole's decoy,' (the woman Nicole had sent to 'recon' on him: her real name was Bianca Giovanni, but right now he felt so betrayed that he was unable to think of Bianca as anything beyond the bounds of Nicole, as she truly was nothing but an extension, lover or pawn of that wicked woman. Thank god he had worn protection during their three sexual encounters.)

He needed to breath, he needed to remain calm, he needed Eames more than ever, and it wouldn't be the first time he went to his happy place, a place in time where she was curled up asleep in his arms. A time and place that seemed so far away – so far away that it seemed to be more like a dream:

_ That night in her bedroom, her head nestled into his chest, the warm air from her exhalation, tickling his ribcage. Her tiny hand and elbow curled inward against his abdomen. Just to be surrounded by all of the things that made up Eames, her smells, her knick-knacks, her books, her pillows, her sheets, was like heaven, ahh . . . the modest tiny one bedroom apartment that was all Eames. It was a good place to be, surrounding her petite frame, with that minor protrusion that was now her nephew, pressing slightly against his skin._

_This small window of his relationship with Eames existed during the most chaotic period he'd experienced thus far at Major Case: Eames a surrogate mother, Bishop his temporary partner, and the insecurity that came about after Croyden was still a fresh wound. _

His fingers played deep into his left hand pocket, finding the familiar chain of the pendant Eames had given him for Christmas. The Virgin Mary was meant to protect him, look after him, and potentially comfort him in times of mental distress. His thumb and forefinger clasped onto the oval shaped icon, his thumb slowly rubbing over the tiny ridges that formed the impression of her face.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he whispered, (it was the same familiar phrase that he'd heard roll off of Eames' tongue on many occasions), as his mind whirled around this predicament.

The whole fucking problem was that he'd only just started being okay with the situation of not having a relationship with Eames outside of their professional partnership. And all of it was now balanced as such because he'd managed to trick his brain into believing that he would be even more important and instrumental to her well-being by being able to look after her in a peripheral manner. Namely, he'd fuck her up if he stayed with her (because he had no real relationship that had survived in the past) and he served her better as her junior partner (proof positive was the tight bond they'd formed prior to their sexual relationship – they'd been doing great before the surrogacy) and finally, he'd come to the conclusion that if he truly cared about her, he could serve her in a way that was paramount to her success in life – which was that he could and should look after her and be her personal guardian.

And now, somehow Nicole had managed to find a way to fuck even that up. And the biggest mind-fuck of it all was that Nicole was using him as the channel to make this all happen.

Somehow, just somehow, he'd managed to fail Eames again.

If only he'd managed to jump into the Hudson last May, maybe Eames wouldn't have to be dragged down with him. All of these grandiose thoughts of failure bounced back and forth through his addled skull.

Minutes passed before he realized the searing pain in his left thumb, (he'd born a blister from the rubbing combined with anxiety-produced sweat) and the familiar iron taste of blood that slowly pooled in his mouth, (his eye teeth that were tightly clamped down on his lower lip).

Regrettably, he knew sleep wouldn't come without alcohol or the stack of textbooks he had lined up to the right of his armchair. He fumbled around for the thickest text that combined forensics and organic chemistry. This particular read, had been a recommendation from Rogers, and while he'd much rather wrap up in one of his many psych texts, he knew that he'd be unable to tear himself away from reading more about Nicole Wallace.

And right now, he desperately needed a mental respite – thus o-chem might be his best bet.

Nicole had certainly succeeded with her plan:_ ". . . no one crosses me like that and gets away with it."_


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

October 16, 2004 (2:34 a.m.) - Brooklyn, New York

Nicole Wallace's menacing voice message came to be just days after Goren and Eames had arrested Dr. John Manotti, a genius in his own right, (also with his life completely out of control). As the NYPD officers escorted a frenetic Manotti out of the room, Eames shook her head, unable to reign in her base emotions, "My mother always said 'be happy you're not a genius'. It makes for a lonely life."

He'd wondered if she'd remembered the words she'd used to describe him almost a year ago as they lay in her bedroom:

_"Do you know how many times I just sat around, unable to follow your train of thought? Do you know what it's like when I'd watch you derive something from the crime scene . . . I keep telling the captain, I'm working with this genius . . . I didn't know you were gifted when we first started working together . . ."_

_He remembers wishing that she'd step back for a moment so that he could compose himself. Thankfully, she seemed to read him on queue, and he watched her slide back to her side of the bed, "Does it ever turn off?" she asked quietly._

Even now, he knew the answer to her question: No, never. Not without a host of drugs (usually alcohol) and the distraction of new information (via books) and sometimes, just sometimes, he'd slip away into dreamland – only to often find himself re-working the same problems in his brain during slumber.

Tonight mirrored everything he knew of his past experiences, and as the text of the organic chemistry forensics textbook blurred in his head, as his eyelids rested and his eyeballs slowly drifted back towards his skull, he found himself sitting in a foreign room. The lighting was minimal, the hue of the wall a familiar grey, complete with a geometric pattern repeating itself in measured increments. He was in a holding cell at One Police Plaza.

The light was slowly ebbing away, when he heard a quiet, low searching voice, "Are you in there?"

It was Eames, he knew her voice in a heartbeat.

"Eames."

"Where are you?"

"I'm here."

"I can't see you."

"I'm in a holding cell."

"Which one?"

"I don't know."

Suddenly there was a faint noise breaking through the background.

"I can't get to you," Eames complained.

"I hear something," he mumbled, the noise was subtly growing louder.

"Where are you Bobby?"

"Shhh," he whispered, "I hear a, uh, a . . ."

Then a sharp pain, as some force bowled him flat against the stark holding cell cot, his head snapped back and stopped abruptly against the firm surface. A numbing sensation emanated from the back of his head, namely the first area of impact. He felt strangely neutralized, and unable to move, he flexed his fingers but felt that he could attain little movement. Indeed, his arms and chest felt oddly constricted . . . and shit, something was crawling over him, hovering inches above his nose.

"Hello Bobby."

A sickening twist, his gut tightened when he realized to whom the voice belonged; Nicole's distinct accent, through many painful conversations, had been etched into his brain.

He felt her finger depress the tip of his lips, "shhhhh," she whispered, "it's pointless Bobby, she can't help you now."

He was trying to remain calm and in control, but couldn't disguise the fact that he'd been holding his breath, and within seconds, he exhaled sharply, his body shaking from the effort.

Nicole giggled, "I've never seen you quite like this detective," she paused as she surveyed him, "you're not quite in your element at the moment, so prone, and do I detect . . . a whiff of fear?"

"Considering your track record . . ." he gasped.

"Yes," Nicole smiled brightly, "and what I _would _like to do to you. Let's go slowly, shall we?"

He flinched at her touch, closed his eyes and decided to go away, anywhere but here . . .

"Oh no you won't," Nicole chided him, "there's no where to go, you will open your eyes, I want to see your expression when I . . ."

And then the same repetitive sound he'd heard when he was dialoguing with Eames, was it a ringer tone? A phone, perhaps . . . ?

_What the fuck?_

His eyes popped open as he registered his home land-line. How long had it been ringing? When had he drifted off? He fingered away the drool from his lower lip, sat up quickly, knocking off the heavy textbook with a thud as it hit the floor. He tried to gather himself quickly as he crossed the room to anwer the phone, the sweat from his nightmare evaporating from his back, "Hello?"

"Still awake Bobby?"

He knew the accent, and this time it wasn't a dream.

"I gather you got my message then," Nicole lingered on the last syllable.

"Yes Nicole," he said in a rather resigned tone.

"Were you surprised to hear my voice?"

He shook his head, "actually, I never doubted that you faked your own death."

"Yes," she paused, "I suppose there's no fooling the world's best detective, unless of course, I managed to dupe you into sleeping with one of my own."

He sighed and wondered if he should simply hang up on her. I mean, did he really want to hear her out on this? But, more importantly, he needed to know what she knew. And yes, Nicole was clever, she knew he'd hang on to the conversation for that reason alone.

"What's the matter Bobby?" He could hear the smile in her voice, "Cat got your tongue? By the way, Bianca sends her regards. She says you were quite the gentleman, but I expected no less of you. I mean, we know how much you hated your daddy. So much so, that even your sick little mommy seemed like _the shit_. So I expected that you'd be kind to the opposite sex."

He didn't realize how tightly he was holding on to the receiver until his left hand knuckles actually started to ache, "Okay, Nicole, what is it that you know?"

"Oh, I know tons . . . funny story actually," Nicole grinned, "First time you bedded Bianca, Bianca actually thought you preferred men. I mean you seemed to prefer a sexual position that put her as far away from you as possible, and then, well, she told me that you called out for an "Alex" a few times as you were getting off. That's when I put it all together detective."

"Let's get this over with," he grumbled, (desperately trying to sound as if none of this information she relayed even mattered), "what is it that you know – that, uh, that you feel so bold, that you, a fugitive from the NYPD can come out and risk making calls to the detective who is going to trace this call and bring you in."

"I know who Alex is detective," Nicole snapped, "and I think it plays to my advantage that I know how you feel about her, such that you fantasize about her when you have sex, or, have you already been intimate with Detective Eames?"

"Now why would I divulge personal information to you?"

"Does she know you want to fuck her . . . that you think about her when you fuck other women?"

He sighed again, "Since I can now safely assume you really don't know anything that can affect me personally, I'm going to end this call, and you can assume I'm already in contact with headquarters and this call is being traced, and . . ."

"Affect you personally Bobby?" Nicole scolded, "do you hear what you are saying? How can you think rationally and make effective decisions when you have those kinds of feelings for your partner. In England, this relationship would be forbidden and deemed to be a conflict of interest. And I know you Bobby, you love her, no, not just love her, you are crazy about her. I can see it now in every past situation I've experienced with you and detective Eames. She is your Achilles' heel detective. Any criminal mind that knows how to get to you, how to fuck with your head, well . . . simply put detective: your head is all you've got. And now that I have your head, you are mine."

With that, he put the receiver down and hung up on her. He'd debate for hours whether that was the right thing to do. She'd done it though; Nicole Wallace got in his head and was sitting there right now, fucking it up entirely. Everything she said was true, and if only he'd been able to think clearly, maybe he could make sense of it all. But many things in his life had started deteriorating since Nicole Wallace's verdict back in January. Then there was the fight he'd had with Eames after the Nelda Carlson case. It had been a strange fight, one that took a bite out of their partnership, and one that they'd never bothered to repair. He was losing his way, and he began to panic, this was how it went with his mother . . . would he follow in his mother's footsteps? Would he lose the ability to cope, would the darkness swallow him whole?

* * *

May 24 2004 – One Police Plaza, Manhattan, New York

"Can we talk about Nelda?"

"I thought we'd already talked about her."

"No," Eames blew some stray hair strands out of her face, "you waved me off the other day."

"I, uh, I'd rather focus on the case at hand," he pointed to the white board that was full of every student they'd interviewed at Hudson High.

"No," Eames reiterated, "I'm the senior partner here, we're in a closed off conference room which provides for extra privacy . . . and honestly, I'm about this close to telling Deakins that you need to check back in with Dr. Skoda."

She'd gotten his attention. Eames had never, ever suggested this route before. This was serious. Given his reluctance to go back to the shrink, he decided to talk.

"I don't like this," he looked down at the floor, "you've never coerced me before."

"I've never had too."

"I'm fine."

"You think?" Eames asked incredulously, "you think it's all good when I have to stoop this low to get the truth out of you? I mean, if you want to go at it like this, how come you've never held out on me like this?"

"I didn't need to."

"Why?"

"I don't know why."

"Well," Eames pushed the case file to the side, "we've got all day to figure out why."

"Nah," he protested with an edge of fierceness, "this isn't good Eames, we don't work like this."

"Oh," She queried with a dangerous edge in her voice, "how do _we _work? Or is it now up to you who decides how _we_ work? Wait, you know what? I don't need this bullshit right now. I'm going back to the school to talk with the advisors of all the effected parties. You can stay around here and figure out what's going on between us since you are now the expert."

His eyes were wide with shock as she picked up the case file and jacket and spun out the door. They'd never had it out like this at the office. His head was swimming and his heart sank in his chest. Was this still about them? Was Eames jealous of Nelda? Was Eames just worried about him? And with that, he found himself in the conference room alone, a swirl of questions spinning through his head.

* * *

October 16, 2004 (6:15 a.m.) - Brooklyn, New York

He was able to fall asleep at some point during the night, and when the alarm brought him back into the fold of the day, he was still left pondering about when everything in his life had started to implode. The past held the frustrations associated with being in compromised situation with Eames, and now that Nicole Wallace was added to the mix . . . the future held severe problems for Robert Goren.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

October 16, 2004 (7:36 a.m.) – One Police Plaza, Manhattan, New York

"Is that a good read?"

Goren paused, but didn't look up from his _Science_ magazine article. He recognized Eames's voice, as he'd come to only selectively listen to her vocalizations above all other audio traffic on the eleventh floor.

"_DNA Is Not Destiny_?" Eames cocked her head before adding, "thank God or I would've probably inherited my Aunt Fiona's beak."

"Uh, actually, it's about the recent boom in epigenetic research, uh, you know, the chemical marker and switches that are responsible for turning on or off gene expression."

Eames nodded, "Yeah, well, maybe not so much. What's the gist?"

"There's uh, there's evidence that the epigenome is sensitive to the environment, uh, for example, just about any environmental exposure, perhaps drinking coffee everyday, could alter an individual's body and brain for life – such that . . ."

"Is that why I've no cuppa this morning?" Eames lifted her left eyebrow, "anyway, I thought altering my body was the point of coffee."

She was uniquely playful this morning, and he couldn't help but wonder if she could sense his innate pensiveness. Pensiveness? Anxiety? Utter fear that lay just behind his eyes . . . planted ever so carefully by his arch-nemesis Nicole?

"I'm sorry about the coffee," he mumbled, "I got here late, uh, well you know, late for me."

"It's okay," she spoke softly and rather slowly, as if his own pensiveness had caused her to dabble in some serious ruminating of her own, "you look really tired . . . did you get any sleep last night?"

He shook his head and turned the page, "maybe I can get you some coffee now?"

He saw her give him an extra long look, her soft brown eyes, were searching. It was a sweet, concerned look, one that was framed against multiple lines that creased her forehead, "You'd tell me if something was wrong," she asked, her head nodding towards the article.

"Yeah," he whispered, looking down to avoid those beautiful eyes, beautiful and worried eyes. It always hurt his heart when he felt as if he was being less than truthful to her.

With that, he clambered out of his office chair, simultaneously grabbing his trench coat for a quick hike to her favorite coffee joint. If he wasn't too late, they'd still have her favorite flavored Danish.

His head was still wrapped up in late night muses of chemical combinations, convoluted by the idea that "free will" played into genetics. Could he escape his fate? Or would the toxic environment he'd been placed into irrevocably destroy or change the things that he truly loved?

Perhaps there was still hope. Perhaps he could find a path that would no longer isolate him from Eames, one where they could work around Nicole Wallace. But the problem boiled down to the creation of total and utter confusion. It was a complex problem he had wrestled with before: Work first? Eames second? And at one time, this seemed to be the reasonable solution . . . but now and again, he felt the pain of not being able to share more of himself with Eames. Therefore, he blamed that hollow hole in his gut on his original solution; choosing his work ahead of her.

But then again, just to play devil's advocate, he knew that work had always been his saving grace: it kept him sane, out of trouble, there were the puzzles, and there was mystery and magic. So to be successful, he needed work just as much as he needed Eames.

And now there was Nicole, therefore, he had little time to act. Goren knew what he had to do: for all of Nicole's past crimes, for Ella, for the unknown past and future victims; he had to put Nicole away.

So what was standing in his way? It was his undying need to protect Eames from any unnecessary emotional discomfort; the need to safeguard Eames' reputation and career.

One thing was certain, and that was that he couldn't be sure of Nicole's next move, or what she'd do with her newfound information. That being said, he knew that he must quickly decide whether to let Eames in on the secret – for the longer he held out, the larger the explosion could be. So he came up with a temporary solution: twenty four hours . . . twenty four hours and if there was no resolution, he promised himself that he'd tell Eames.

So with his mind still wrapped up in the dangerous wake of Nicole's destructive path, he'd found himself returning to One Police Plaza, his hands warmed by Eames 16 oz coffee, the danish wrapped neatly in his outer coat pocket.

When he reached the eleventh floor, he saw Eames amidst a room buzzing with detectives. She was at her desk, a quizzical look painted on her face as she turned what appeared to be a letter in her hands.

When he first caught her eyes, she smiled back warmly before setting the letter down on her desktop.

He handed her the Danish first, then her coffee, "Still finalizing the paperwork? Anything I need to sign?"

"Huh," she raised an eyebrow, while taking a sip, "oh, no, Dr. John Manotti is officially off our plate."

"How about that?" he pointed to the opened letter.

"This?" Eames bit down on her lower lip, "I don't know what to think of this."

"Let me see," he asked, quickly eyeballing the typed note, "where did you get this?"

"It was sitting on the desk, when I returned from the bathroom."

His eyebrows lifted as he read the short typed note:

_Alex,_

I was wondering if you would like to go out with me for a bite to eat. I have to admit, I've had feelings for you for some time, and it wasn't easy for me to leave this note on your desk. The eleventh floor is swarming with colleagues that are, well you know, some of New York's most successful detectives. So, what do you think? Would you care to meet me tomorrow around 5pm at the café on the lower level?

_- R (your secret admirer over the years)_

His nose flared and his heartbeat quickened. This was too much of a coincidence. It had to be Nicole fucking with him, right? R? Who was R? Was "R" supposed to be him? Who was going to show up at the café? (Fucking Nicole, she knew he'd show up if he'd caught wind of the letter, and was the probability that he wouldn't find it?) He didn't realize that he was shaking his head from side to side until Eames' voice broke through his concentration.

"What's wrong?"

He scratched the side of his head, "Was this, uh, like this, or did it come out of that envelope?"

"Out of the envelope, but I don't understand . . ."

He immediately stood up from his chair and began running his fingertips repeatedly against day-old stubble, anything that could prevent him from pacing.

Eames looked at him quizzically, "Do you think this is Reilly?"

Reilly was one detective that had been trying to win her over for years, and yes the note was signed with an "R," but, but . . . his brain was spinning. In his gut, he knew it was Nicole, and he was going to have to decide quickly (decide faster than twenty-four hours) on how he wanted to handle the situation.

"Uh, I, I just remember that I," he paused, unable to decide if he was more irritated by his inability to come up with a good lie, or, because it might be necessary to lie to her in the first place.

"I'll be right back," he said decidedly.

Eames was his best friend. He'd been straight with her in the past, even when lying nearly broke his heart in two. Now, if it weren't for lack of sleep and Nicole Wallace's successful mindfuck, he'd probably be able to make the right decision in less than two seconds. Instead, as he went spiraling towards the elevators, Nicole had succeeded in sending him away from Eames yet again.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

_October 16, 2004 (8:57 a.m.) – One Police Plaza, Manhattan, New York_

Robert Goren went for a walk. This was not a routine stroll, but rather it was a rickety jaunt set at a rather frenetic pace.

And this wasn't all about the puzzling note that was left on his partner's desk. Goren was confused, exhausted and seconds away from panicking. His mind was rotating noisily like a an overused movie reel, the frames flickering, blurring and blending together to form pieces of the bigger picture, one that had been slowly pieced together months in advance: the erosion of his connection to his closest advocate and friend: senior partner Alex Eames.

* * *

_May 24, 2004 – One Police Plaza, Manhattan, New York_

As he sat alone in the conference room, post being subjected to Eames not so subtle attack:

_"Oh, how do we work? Or is it now up to you who decides how we work? . . . I'm going back to the school to talk with the advisors of all the effected parties. You can stay around here and figure out what's going on between us since you are now the expert."_

He now had all the time in the world to reflect on the slow deterioration of their once tight alliance. Perhaps this was normal – a coping mechanism couples would go through to find a way to continue on even when their relationship status had changed. Or maybe it stemmed from the Wallace verdict; both of them trying desperately to manage the loss of not being able to put Nicole away for good. It was a failure that they both shared, and one that they could no longer pin on Carver or some other external factor for that matter. And while they didn't win every case, this one in particular had meant so much more.

Then there was the individual issue at hand: Nelda Carlson. Eames had never been so course, "are you pinning her?" she'd asked bluntly.

The words stung on many levels. Why so crass Eames? Don't you trust me? And if he hadn't detected the worry in her voice, the familiar expression on her face, he might not have been able to let her verbal attack pass.

And so it continued to be a most difficult year, for after Nelda, there followed several more cases in which he found himself becoming emotionally attached to the perps.

* * *

_September 17, 2004 – Perkins' Auto Repair, Manhattan, New York_

Things had been slipping into darkness for some time now. For some strange reason, he and Eames were seemingly stuck in some alternative universe, where the cases were spiraling further out of control.

Forever burned in Goren's mind was that of the meeting with Rose Cahill and Butch Perkins at Butch's auto repair shop off of Union Street.

The sickening and shocking truth that was painfully revealed as Rose denied losing her baby, denied an abortion.

He remembered glancing up at Eames face, watching the realization spread as if in slow motion, but he kept going, kept pulling the information out of Rose, he couldn't stop, if he stopped it might enable him to focus and register on the unbelievable horror of the situation at hand.

Instinctively, he slipped into remote mode . . . kicked at the light stand and watched Rose protectively hold up her hands, his gut tightening simultaneously, cementing the truth – the baby was still in there.

Eames face lost its color, and contrasted against the poorly illuminated garage, she appeared to be washed out against the neutral-intensive walls. For a brief moment he was actually worried that Eames would be sucked away from him, forever lost in the neutrals, only but for a second until he was redirected into Eames' bright red dress shirt, one that loudly commanded the attention of his rods and cones.

"Oh my god," he heard Eames whisper.

But Goren continued to press further, he could, (he wasn't sure why), but he could switch things off just like that, " . . . the baby died inside you . . . and calcified."

"A stone baby," Eames murmured.

And he kept on as Rose broke down in front of him. It's what he did, what he was good at, and it was what he needed: to let things play out and unfold. That's when the truth would come bursting out, usually stale, sour or in this case: calcified. He held in a shiver and waited for Rose to elaborate before gently probing, "You couldn't tell Butch the truth?"

Rose tearfully shook her head, "then he'd see what I am . . ." and with that Rose paused before tentatively meeting his gaze, ". . . a coffin . . . a tomb." (Her last word was hardly above a whisper, but it struck such a chord with him when he came to the realization that he felt a newfound empathy with this poor creature.)

He held Rose silently until two patrol officers guided her out of the garage. Emotions knew no bounds, and he felt suddenly afraid that he might lose it on the spot. He'd always had such refined control, he'd seen human bodies in all stages of decomposition, he'd seen violent killings, and the cruel mistreatment of a host of those who could not protect themselves: women, children, the elderly, the mentally ill, a variety of minorities and foreigners, animals and nature – but for some peculiar reason, this nearly sent him over the edge. He drew both of his hands to his mouth to silence a drawn out exhalation.

Eames muttered, "I'm going to need to see my nephew later . . . it's the dark ages, sometimes I think we're still living in them."

And yes, all of these brutal revelations were revealed simultaneously with another investigation where a mentally ill woman with post-partum depression, one that was being punished by her abusive husband, (a cruel man who forced his wife to raise and home-school her four young children without any outside assistance).

* * *

October 16, 2004 (9:13 a.m.) – One Police Plaza, Manhattan, New York

These painful reflections filled his skull as he paced up and down the promenade that adjoined the NYPD plaza. The confusion, the slow separation that had been building between Eames and himself: somewhere along the line, they'd lost a step along the way, lost something that they'd gained after they made the risky jump into an intimate relationship. Now, months after the Nicole verdict, the emotional draining Carlson case, the horror story of Rose Cahill, the dark turmoil present during the investigation of Doreen Whitlock and now Nicole's powerful re-emergance: It was all too much.

Most peculiar of all, was that it wasn't until now, with the aide of time and perspective that could he comprehend the empathy he'd held for Rose Cahill. Nicole Wallace had seen to that. One only had to change the names:

"You couldn't tell Eames the truth?"

"Then she'd see what I am . . ."

Maybe the final description was different, but in the end, the accumulation of bad thoughts devoured him whole. Yes, he loved Eames, but showing her what was inside of him? Could he tell her that he'd slept with another woman? That he had been played by Nicole in a very humiliating manner? That Nicole had obtained insight into their partnership? That he'd kept the information of Nicole's existence hidden from her for nearly a twenty-four hour period?

And with that, he felt a slow sickness spreading just under his skin, it made his hairs stand on end.

The only distraction to come into play was that of the gentle vibration emanating form his left coat pocket. This was in fact his cell phone, and it took him but a second to recognize the stimuli as something other than his state of being.

Less than a second passed, before he recognized the identity of his caller. He stopped mid-stride and flipped open his phone, "Hello?"


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six_

October 16, 2004 (9:23 a.m.) – Centre Street, Manhattan, New York

Goren was returning from a longer walk than he'd intended when he felt his cell phone quiver in his left coat pocket. His hand brushed over the chain of his Virgin Mary pendant before he could wrap his fingers around the small rectangular metallic object whose tiny vibrations reverberated against his fingertips, "Hello?"

"Robert?"

"Eames?"

"Sorry, you didn't sound like yourself," Eames noted, (her voice seemed a million miles away, even though he knew she was less than five minutes down the road by foot), "everything okay?"

"Yeah," he nodded firmly, catching his breath.

"Look," Eames paused, "Carver needs me at One Hogan's Place . . . you know, the Carlson trial? It's just some prep stuff."

"He's going to put you on the stand?"

"It looks like it."

Not surprisingly, he was rarely called to the stand. He knew why; and it wasn't just because he was the junior officer.

"Look," Eames paused, "why don't you take the day, get some rest, and turn off your cell."

He bit the inside of his lip; it was easy to sense the insecurity in her voice. (_Fuck, now she was tip-toeing around him)._

"I'm your senior partner," Eames tried to play it off with a bit of humor, "I promise you won't miss a thing. You can bet there will still be another dead body just waiting around the corner for us tomorrow."

"Okay," he exhaled, "but I'm not turning off my phone, so if something comes up, I'll be ready."

"Good." Eames replied warmly, (and he distinctly heard her breath release as if she were genuinely relieved by his decision.)

"Uh, Eames?

"Yeah?"

"You're not going to take that note seriously."

"What note?"

"The letter you found on your desk."

"Oh…" Eames started, "you don't think I should go?"

"Let me," he suggested (clearly understanding that this made him out to be a possessive, control freak and one that deemed it okay to dabble in her personal life), "I can, uh, scope him out and save you the trouble of not running into an unwanted suitor, uh, or take out the mystery of it all."

There was an awkward silence before Eames finally spoke, "Well, okay, but then you have to promise me that you are going to make your best effort to go home and rest, or, do whatever it is you do to relax. Okay?"

"Deal," he accepted without a second thought.

* * *

October 16, 2004 (9:55 a.m.) – Eleventh Floor, One Police Plaza, Manhattan, New York

After looping back upstairs to the eleventh floor to grab a few books he'd wanted to peruse through for the night, he was seconds away from walking out of the office when he recognized his Deakins' voice, "Robert?"

He turned around only to see Deakins coming towards him half dressing; pulling on a heavy peacoat.

"Captain?"

"Yes, um, can you walk with me?" Deakins half nodded towards the elevator, "seems like you were headed in this general direction."

Goren nodded and walked with his captain to the elevator doors.

"We've got another hot case. They found the body in Central Park, but chances are its been moved," Deakins noted sourly, "the ID in the pocket is Marla Edwards, as in Jeff Edward's wife."

"Is that the television actor?" Goren queried.

"The one and only," Deakins nodded, "reports indicate her last few moments on this earth were met with a vicious kind of violence."

Goren nodded, "Eames is at Carver's office."

"I know," Deakins spoke slowly, "but we want to get on this one fast."

Once they reached the ground floor, he watched as Deakins jetted out of the elevator. Already the floor was buzzing with a multitude of journalists - no doubt waiting for a press release.

He turned to use the side doors. "So much for the day off," he whispered to no one in particular. His stomach grumbled as he motioned to a plain uniformed officer to catch a ride to the park, "so much for lunch too."

* * *

October 16, 2004 (10:42 a.m.) – Central Park, Manhattan, New York

The section of the park where the body was found was sealed off tightly by a squad of stationed officers, yellow tape, and a near dozen K-9 units that were being used to patrol an additional section of the surrounding area for clues.

Goren knelt down by the side of the body and slowly scanned the surrounding area; mostly low brush and a slight grade from the cemented path that measured roughly seven feet or so above his head. The path was surely close enough to access by vehicle, so he rose to his full height of seventy-six-odd inches and looked to see if there was any indication that the body had been rolled down the sloping landscape.

"Post-mortem bruising and multiple indications on her clothing suggest that she was likely dumped from the . . ." he stopped when he remembered that he was essentially speaking to no one, it was habit, Eames standing beside him as he inspected the body. It was at that point as he paused that he felt a bit strange, light-headed perhaps? Nonetheless, he returned to the body to examine the wounds: he counted at least seven entry wounds, two of them were deep enough and quite possibly delivered the fatal blows as they had severed major arteries. The placement and shape of each wound suggested a right handed suspect, one that was most likely taller than the victim, who looked to be average height.

He stood up again, a fleck of color against a medium sized shrub caught his attention which he recognized as a piece of fabric from the victim's sweater, "Hey, hey," he hollered, motioning at the closest uniformed officer, "I want pictures of that brush, and the section of this, uh, hill," he motioned his hand up and down to infer the path the victim.

His stomach grumbled as he edged his way past the body and up the invisible path to the sidewalk. Once standing on the path, he was fairly certain that the body must have transported via a vehicle, one that was most likely parked directly in his currently line of vision and adjacent to the path. He decided to canvas the row of expensive apartments that would have had the perfect view of any peculiar activities. He'd need to get a general timeline from the Medical Examiner, but once the prelim came in, he'd have enough info to start working the doormen.

Leaving the scene of the crime, he felt a wave of exhaustion, nausea and double vision come quickly enough to stop him dead in his tracks. Goren had to pause, so he sat down on the edge of the cement stairs that led out of the park, and put his head between his legs. He was aware of the uncomfortable clamminess that was now settling around his fingers in his pair of examiners gloves. He tried to distract himself with working the pair of latex gloves off his hands, when the swift aroma of latex made his stomach lurch.

He suddenly heard a slight very low ringing noise in his ears, and then, "Detective!" muffled strangely, as if the voice had traveled through a liquid barrier. Then blackness began to swarm around his peripheral.

"Detective?"

He wasn't yet able to respond, too busy shaking his head slowly to fight off the darkness.

"Are you okay?"

Slowly, vision crept back and the ringing noise started to fade; a young officer was inches away from his face, and all he could think about was how the smell of latex combined with sweat was still making him quite ill, "yes?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, uh, I'm okay, thanks."

"You don't look okay," the officer noted, "you're white as a sheet."

"I, uh, I think I just need," he started to move, but then when his legs nearly gave out on him, he decided to set still for a little longer.

"Do you need some water or something?"

He looked up to try and focus on the officer, she was a female, petite like Eames, dark hair tied into a pony-tail, lips soft, with kind, dark concerned eyes.

"Thank you, I'm okay," he managed, his voice unsteady, "I think I'm coming down with something."

"I hear you," the officer smiled, "my husband and kid both had this awful bug, I think I'm still getting over it. It was the first time I wanted to beg for desk duty."

"That must be it," he smiled again and rubbed at his temples, "I'm headed back to One Police Plaza, do you think you could call in a ride?"

"Sure," she answered before putting in his request on her 2-way, "when you are ready, Officer Vasquez is at street side."

"Thank you, uh . . ." he paused and stood up extra slow with his hand extended.

"Officer Lee, Caroline Lee," she smiled again and took his hand – to shake it or steady him he'd never know.

"Robert. Robert Goren."

He appreciated that Officer Lee took his condition for what it was worth, and with absolutely no judgment. He tried to shake off the idea that this was due to the fact that the officer wasn't male. Dr. Skoda had tried to convince him that while his bias against men was derived from actual past experiences that clearly reinforced his prejudice, it was time for him to step back and be able to detach himself from the past. (_"Robert, You've got to approach each situation with a clean slate.")_ Skoda further explained that his condition was largely a result of a obsessive paranoid personality; and heavily linked to a behavior that was not only _not _serving him, but harming his ability to form normal relationships as an adult.

On the ride back to the station, his thoughts scattered rapidly in his mind, perhaps it was due to lack of nutrients, but he couldn't focus on one solid train of thought: Nicole Wallace was still at the forefront of his mind, and with that, panic and fear washed out nearly every other thought, save during the periods of intense focus during the day as when he was investigating the crime scene. Then there was the note on Eames desk, which again was in all probability tied to Wallace, and hence his mind was drawn back into Wallace's darkness yet again, (more often he mused, than most men thought of sex). Then there was Eames. Eames almost always occupied a percentage of his thoughts: her happiness, her comfort, her safety, her future, their future as partners, their future as . . . (and this is usually where he cut off the thought, here or when he was exploring the time they'd been more than partners, of the closeness, the intimacy, her proximity, her smell, her cute nose, the way she kissed him and how her tongue tentatively darted into his mouth).

The area between his thighs twitched, but then his stomach grumbled and soon after he swallowed back some saliva, he felt the nausea closing back in.

Back at 1PP, grabbing a complimentary cup of coffee as soon as he hit the snack room on the eleventh floor, he came back into the main floor only to see Eames settling in at her desk. Eames clearly made no effort to conceal the frown that was growing on her face.

"I thought we had a deal," the corners of her mouth were double-lined, he knew this meant that she wasn't joking around.

He nodded towards the captain's door, "Captain got me on the way out."

"Really?" She looked genuinely surprised and irritated at the same time, but before she spoke another word, he knew she'd already forgiven him, and why wouldn't she? He'd given her his common submissive gestures, the lowered eyelids, the non-eye contact, sitting low in his chair to meet her on her level, a.k.a. the usual deference due to his senior partner.

"Well," she paused looking directly up at him, "you look awful . . . will you go home now?"

He looked at his desktop, unsure of how he wanted to proceed.

"I'm here now, I can take over," she said, which sounded more like a command than a suggestion.

"I have, uh, notes," Goren sifted through his binder and started to hand over what he'd noted about the Edwards case.

"Thanks," Eames took the notepad before adding in a quieter tone, "I got another message from R."

"You, uh, . . . what?"

"Another message from R, something about how his plans changed, blah blah blah and now I should try meeting with him tonight instead," Eames rolled her eyes, "but obviously it's not going to work for me . . . and I'd suggest you blow it off too."

His heartbeat's tempo increased dramatically over the last few seconds, "When and where?"

"No." Eames said, "Look, I understand your concern, but you need to go home and I'm asking you as your friend . . . and your partner to go home."

"What about," he started while his right hand scratched the back of his head, "uh, what about this guy . . ."

"Forget it, and forget him," Eames grumbled, "he'll find out soon enough that you can't make last minute changes to my schedule . . . and if he does work on this floor, or in this building for that matter, he won't care when he gets stood up. How's that for mystery?"

He stood there for an extra few seconds looking rather lost, his right hand clamped to the back of his neck.

"Goodbye," Eames said, gesturing for him to be on his way, her eyes scanning over his notes, "I know how to read your notes, c'mon now, scram. Eat, sleep, do something that will make you look more human by tomorrow.

With that, he followed his senior partner's orders, until she was out of his sight. Once the elevator doors of the eleventh floor closed behind him, he decided to solve at least one of the mysteries that was fucking with his head: who the fuck was R? And was there a connection between R and Nicole Wallace?


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven_

October 16, 2004 (4:44 p.m.)

Robert Goren was taking a chance. For one, he couldn't be certain that "R" was connected to Nicole Wallace nor could he be sure that the re-scheduled meeting was supposed to take time at the same venue and around the same general time.

Despite his foggy head (mostly crippled by fatigue, chronic stress and poor nutrition) he was determined to play the odds. And two things were certain: he had a sixth sense when it came to understanding human nature and he had a solid knowledge base of statistics and probability.

But certainty started to get cloudy and overtly complicated when he tried to gauge the fallout that could result with his senior partner Eames. He was now wedged between two rather unpleasant outcomes, which of course had not escaped his notice. There was even a part of him that realized that he wasn't thinking straight, that something wasn't right, and that when it came down to it, he was too tired to come up with a better solution.

Without being able to make sense of the situation for the future, he looked back to the past; a place where he'd almost always been lucky. He'd had the chips stacked against him on numerous occasions, and he'd learned to get away with it. Why? Well for one, he was smarter than the rest. And when it came down to it, there were only a handful of variables that would play out.

And yes, there were slight deviations to the end results, but even in those rather dismal and confusing times, one variable had remained the same: Eames. She'd been by his side for over five years, through thick or thin. Eames was unflappable, steady . . . his constant.

And now for some fucking unknown reason, he'd decided to take on the odds without her. Yes, he knew it was stupid. But wasn't he allowed to act compulsively now and again? Perhaps this was a test. Could he take a blow without her? Would the repercussions be too much to bear?

But with that thought drifting through his skull, he was ninety percent certain that he'd just spied the "plant" known as "R."

The café was small and well-used. The food was standard fare and always overpriced. It was convenience straight up, and he avoided it like the plague. He didn't have the petty cash to dish out for it on a daily basis, (nor did he have it in him to keep pastries and coffee from the shop up the street for Eames – but how could one put a price tag on their partnership?), but he was familiar enough with the setting. Seating was limited, and in the warmer months, there was a side door that opened out into a kind of patio, one where a few tables and chairs served a handful of customers.

Of all the entries into the café thus far, most customers were getting beverages to go. That's when his instincts locked on to this thirty-something guy; a guy that was not just looking at the menu, but rather whose eyes would scan the room every five seconds or so. A new sound or quick movement, would have this guy scanning the room yet again. This guy was clearly looking for something or someone. Several new people passed through the door, but Goren's eyes were trained on this rather conspicuous young man.

It was after a few extra gestures that Goren decided that he must make his move, (it was based on the timeframe, or the way the man looked at his watch and glanced back at the entryway). After twenty minutes passed he watched the man get off his stool by the counter and start towards the door to the café. That's when he got out of his corner seat and approached the man.

"Excuse me."

"I'm sorry?"

"Are you looking for someone?"

And without warning, he saw something flash and mobilize quickly out of the corner of his eye.

"Go!" The man called out.

"Don't move!" Goren growled as he edged his way through a few bystanders. Once he had a clear path, he sprinted towards a person who he now identified as Bianca Giovanni, (he hadn't noticed her until now as she'd been wearing tinted glasses and her hair was tied up – not to mention that she wasn't on his radar, Goren had been looking for solely a man to fit the bill), fleeing the scene with quite a bit of a head start.

It felt like a dream. He was running after a woman that had somehow managed to find her way out beyond the austere lobby and through the front entryway. When he whirled outside the plaza, he'd already lost sight of her. He quickly scanned in all directions looking for any signs of movement. He was still panting, ridiculously out of breath for the short sprint. The air was cold, and his jacket was still inside the café.

When he'd caught his breath and decided to no longer pursue Bianca Giovanni, he returned to the café to interrogate Bianca's young male companion.

As he hurried back to the entrance of the café, the change in air temperature tricked his lungs, and he found himself sputtering and wheezing, and in doing so he nearly tripped on the leg of a chair as he forced himself into the unknown man's personal space. The man was clearly outraged.

"What the hell is going on!"

"Who are you and where do you work?"

"No. I think _I _have the right to ask that question."

"Who are you?" his voice thundered in his own ears, he was starting to feel slightly sick, but now was not the time to fold under pressure.

"I'm Ryan Teague, and I work here," he answered stiffly, "and where the fuck do you work?"

"Eleventh floor, Major Case," Goren needled back opening his coat jacket to flash his insignia, quite pleased to be using his title and department to flash a little power.

"No shit," Ryan squinted his eyes at the badge, his body language shifting immediately, his face blanching even under the artificial lights of the dimly lit café, "I . . . uh, I obviously had no idea, detective. I work on the fifth floor, mostly accounting and you know, uh business affairs."

Goren nodded and gestured suggestively that they sit down before they attract anymore attention, "do you want me to buy you a drink?"

"No," Ryan looked genuinely puzzled, "I'm still working on this one."

"So who's the girl?"

"Oh, Bianca?" Ryan cocked his head, "She's my girlfriend, she wanted me to come here and meet up with a different detective, though interestingly enough, a detective from your department."

"Bianca Giovanni?"

"Meyers," Ryan corrected, "Bianca Meyers."

"How long have you been seeing Ms. Meyers?"

"About two weeks," Ryan couldn't disguise a smile, "she's a real sweet girl, we met up at a bar a few blocks west of Centre street."

Goren frowned and shook his head, Nicole was quite gifted at finding very prodigious individuals. Bianca had been trained to follow employees directly from work to the closest bar. Now he knew how Bianca had managed to track both of them down. It wouldn't be that difficult.

"Why Detective Eames? What were you supposed to meet with her about specifically?"

"Oh, yeah," Ryan lowered his eyelids a bit, slightly embarrassed, "Bianca told me that her only brother is incarcerated upstate. Detective Eames was listed as one of the junior detectives that was involved in his particular case. Bianca attended every legal proceeding, and relayed that she felt that Detective Eames testimony painted her brother in such a light, well, lets just say that it actually helped her brother receive a lesser sentence. Bianca was very appreciative of Detective Eames' handling of her brother's case and was hoping that perhaps now that her brother is coming up on a parole hearing, and uh, you know I work in the same building as . . . well, you get the picture."

"Jesus Christ," Goren whispered under his breath. His assumptions had been correct all along. Nicole was certainly crafty. She'd now manipulated Bianca, Ryan, and himself on several occasions – and if Eames had met up with this "R" – he shook his head again, "Detective Eames received a message to meet you here under a different pretense."

"I don't get it," Ryan looked genuinely rattled.

"What I need to know is how you set up the meeting with Detective Eames."

Ryan was still looking very puzzled, as if he was trying to connect the dots, "It didn't seem strange at the time, I'd already looked up Detective Eames' extension internally and when I asked Bianca for more info on her brother's case, you know, in order for me to contact Detective Eames . . . well," Ryan looked a bit sheepish, "Bianca convinced me that she could just as easily leave the voice message and save me the time since I was doing her a favor."

"That didn't seem odd to you?"

"No. I mean . . . I have a secretary at work who could very well have set up the meeting too," Ryan looked flustered, "what was the message that was left on Detective Eames' voice message?"

"Bianca never left a voice message."

"I'm sorry?"

"I need to go," Goren sat up abruptly, having all the info he needed to proceed, "you'll undoubtedly have a few questions for Bianca when you see her next, that is, if she bothers to show up."

"Wait . . ." Ryan called after him, "Detective Goren, what is this about?"

But Goren was already halfway out the door.

* * *

The public transit home was nauseating. Just staying awake long enough to remember to get off at the correct stops was enough to keep him in an unbelievable clammy state, his palms were sweating like crazy. It was a painful cycle, the longer he tried to stay awake, the more nauseous he became. His brain was now commanding him: bed, I need sleep.

Somehow he found himself at his doorstep, turning the key, opening the door, finding the bag of dry cleaning that he was supposed to have dropped off, "fuck."

He was barely functioning, pushing down the blinking red light on his VM machine, he mentally prayed that Eames hadn't yet caught on to his stealth bullshit behavior. What he heard was much, much fucking worse . . . of all the goddamned nights.

_"Hi, this message is for Robert Goren. This is Vicky from the Carmel Ridge Center, please call us when you get this message, I'm going to try the alternative cell number on your mother's contact sheet."_

He quickly pulled out his cell phone from his coat pocket only to remember that he hadn't heard any calls because he'd shut off his phone during the stakeout at the café.

Turning his phone back on, he saw the two additional calls from Carmel Ridge.

Minutes passed and he was on and off with the doctor on call: Dr. Shimo was not available, but the on call physician promised to contact Dr. Shimo so that they could make the best possible decisions regarding his mother's condition. In the end, it was not quite another psychotic break, but rather another new and unpleasant side-effect from the latest anti-psychotic meds.

Suddenly he found himself slumped in his armchair, no amount of alcohol or books would be able to save him from his mental agony; Eames' pendant was already being passed between his fingertips. Palms still sweaty, his stomach a churning mess threatening to relegate him to the "porcelain god" at any moment. His cell phone was turned up to full volume so that there was no way he would miss the call, (If he didn't feel so queasy and dizzy every time he tried to stand on his feet, he'd fly over to Carmel Ridge in a heartbeat).

Every time his mother had an episode, he felt like the pathetic and scared shitless child from his past. And right now, the feeling of being frightened and helpless were magnified a thousand times by the situation with his partner, with Nicole and with the multiple disheartening cases he'd been subjected to over the last nine months.

A psychotic break? A nervous breakdown? A fit of exhaustion? He never come this close to one in his life, but currently, he could feel every red blood cell pounding marching through his circulation system.

With that being said, no amount of fear could keep his mind awake all night and at some point he drifted off . . .

He awoke in what appeared to be the same holding cell that he'd been locked up in from a previous dream: _The lighting was minimal, the hue of the wall a familiar grey, complete with a geometric pattern repeating itself in measured increments._

_Nicole appeared slowly out of one of the four dark corners of the cell, a playful smile on her face, she crept over until she was but inches away from his face. He remained restrained to one of the two utilitarian cots. Nicole seemed more than delighted to have him in such a compromised situation._

_"You've really fucked it up this time Bobby," Nicole's breath bounced off the side of his face, "can you feel me? I got inside you this time."_

_He closed his eyes just before he felt her lips and tongue move across the day old stubble on his cheek. His stomach lurched, while she continued to explore the left side of his face: all teeth, tongue, lips and saliva. He visibly tightened every muscle in his body when he felt her right hand come up to cradle his left knee, trailing slowly up the inside of his left thigh, to come to a final resting place over his sexual organs._

_"Come now Bobby," Nicole teased, "nothing for me? I'm more fun than you could imagine . . . and even though I prefer 'the fairer sex,' I've made my share of men quite happy."_

_He refused to give her any verbal response, but braced himself for the worst, his stomach knotting with each of her physical advances. Without warning, he felt her run her hand up and down the fabric directly over his penis._

_"Not bad, I'll bet you are quite sizable when you're aroused. Shall I talk sweetly to you of your love Eames? I bet you get quite hard thinking of her. So detective, how do you get any work done around her while fostering such thoughts?," Nicole taunted before moving her fingers around his testicles, "but most importantly, do you have what it takes to tell your beloved Detective Eames?"_

_He remained silent and tried to will himself to wake up. _

_Nicole laughed condescendingly, "I do have you by the balls now, don't I?"_

His nightmare was interrupted immediately by his need to vomit. He made it to the toilet in the nick of time, but he passed out before he could make it to the sink to wash his hands and rinse out his mouth. Blackness came quickly and transported him away into a dreamless unconscious.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Eight_

October 17, 2004 - Brooklyn, New York

He woke up face down on his bathroom floor; lips, mouth and tongue the conduits to relay to his brain that familiar, bitter taste of bile. Another minute passed before he slowly eased his large frame into a sitting position. Immediately, he felt as if his skull contracted, a shot of pain caused him to cry out and his left index and pointer finger reflexively rubbed the area of skin between his eyebrows.

Once he regained control of the pain in his head, he was able to process more data such that he could finally pick out the sound of his alarm clock which was continually beeping; a repetitive medium frequency, periodically punctuated by another beep, which he recognized as the sound his phone emitted when he had a new message.

"Shit," he exhaled sharply, trying to scramble to his feet when he remembered some of the details from last night: Carmel Ridge, Dr. Shimo, his mother's condition with the new medication, meeting and discovering the back-story of Nicole's plant "R," running into Bianca outside of the station and keeping everything from his best friend and partner Alex Eames.

"Ohhhh, my goddamned head," he groaned as he unsteadily crossed into the main living area of his one bedroom apartment.

Then, without warning, his cell phone light illuminated brightly and the familiar ring began to go off in unison with the other electronic noises. A fucking orchestra for the insane he thought derisively as he picked up the phone and flipped open the lid.

"Goren."

"Is everything okay?"

It was Eames, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to detect the worry in her voice.

"Uh," he continued to rub his forehead while he decided how much he wanted to tell her, "I have some personal stuff to, uh my mom is having some problems with her medication."

"I'm sorry," Eames sighed, "Is she okay?"

"I've been having a hard time communicating with her primary doctor," he conveyed truthfully, "I've been working with another doctor who is on-call."

"I don't want to bother you, especially right now," Eames explained in a slightly apologetic tone, "but Deakins is riding my ass about the Edwards' case. I'm about to head out to start canvassing some of the homes on the edge of the park, starting with the ones on the . . ."

"Hang on," he paused, walking quickly towards his bedroom, turning off his alarm, while trying to mute his own surprise after discovering the time – 9:13 a.m. – it was abnormal for him sleep past 7 a.m.

"Can you swing by and get me on your way?"

"Can do."

And with that, he listened to the rest of the messages on the phone, left a message with Dr. Shimo, showered quicky, no time for a shave, and put on the last clean suit he had in his closet. It was unremarkable at best, brown and a remnant from the days before he had a regular paycheck. Eames would notice, but he reminded himself that Eames was a detective, hence it was her job to notice.

* * *

When he climbed into the passenger side of her police issue Ford Explorer, he could feel her running her eyes up and down his visage.

"How's your mom?" Eames queried tentatively.

"Sedated," he looked straight ahead to avoid her worried glances, "resting while she transitions off the medication."

"You don't look like you got that much rest," Eames noted wearily.

"Do you, uh . . . do you want to split up the blocks?"

"Sure," Eames replied. She was putting on a show, acting as if everything was the norm. But clearly she was worried, it was the way her eyes lingered on him a few extra seconds, or the stolen glances, that for him, did not go unnoticed.

Once they arrived outside the peripheral of the crime, they split up as planned, but it wasn't until nearly an hour later that Eames got a hit. He closed his phone and went over to meet her streetside.

"This is Jimmy," Eames proudly asserted, pointing to one of Manhattan's many homeless individuals.

"Hi there Jimmy."

Goren extended his hand and Jimmy gladly accepted with a hearty handshake, "Nice to meet you detective."

"Detective Goren," Goren smiled and sat down on his haunches to meet Jimmy at his street side level, "did ya see anything interesting the other night?"

"Sure did detective," Jimmy smiled, "I was telling your pretty friend, uh, Detective Eames, that I saw this car pulled up to the side of the park after most folks I know try to stay outta the park."

Goren scratched the back of his head, "So it was pretty late?"

"Very late, even by my standards . . . cold too, you know, not a good time to take a stroll this time of year."

"Yeah," Goren scratched the day old stubble under his lip, "who got outta the car, Jimmy?"

"Well, it was a little hard to see as the moon was but a sliver, but, I saw this guy come outta the drivers side and he went over to the passengers side and opened the back passenger side door. I wouldn't have noticed, I thought he might be taking a leak or something - but you see, he went into the park and never bothered to shut the passenger side - and you know, I thought that was a little strange."

Goren shook his head, "he didn't open any other door? He didn't access the trunk?"

"No," Jimmy confirmed.

"Could you identify the type of vehicle? Make, model, color . . ." Eames asked.

"Man," Jimmy huffed, "I'd sure like to help a pretty lady like you, but it was really dark, I couldn't see the color, no-sir-ree, but it was one of those fancy expensive models that the rich folks drive."

"Benz? BMW? Lexus? Jag?"

"Lexus," Jimmy's eyes brightened, "yeah, I think it was one of those nicer Lexus sedans, fancy GPS and stuff inside, I could see the glow of electronics, you know?"

Goren placed a twenty in Jimmy's hand, "Thanks, Jimmy," before he motioned to Eames to come away and have a power tête a tête.

"He'd be in the right spot to see it go down."

"Now all we've got to do is track down a dark colored Lexus sedan in the five boroughs."

* * *

Back at the station, he started to fade. He'd managed to hold it together for a few hours, but the accumulative stress could not be held at bay for long. He quarantined himself in one of the many conference rooms with a laptop and notepad while he busied himself with coming up with a composite of the crime. It was his method of brainstorming, a method that generally worked for him, but today it was all he could do to keep himself awake. He'd nearly overdosed on coffee and now was resorting to snacking from the vending machine.

Eames would periodically come in and out the room, mostly checking on his status than the status of the crime. She was busy running leads on the car, checking the victim's cell and land line LUDs, giving the captain constant updates, scheduling a meeting with the victim's husband, family and friends.

In the meantime, Goren buried himself in what he needed to do to make progress, so much so, that he was completely unaware of the visitor that was now sitting in his chair directly across from Eames. In fact, he'd never even have looked out through the glass window of the conference room, if he hadn't suddenly been aware that Eames was way past due her twenty minute check-in.

When he peered through the conference room window out towards their desks on the main floor, his pulse quickened and he felt his stomach sink. Ryan "R" Teague was sitting across from Eames in _his_ chair. He watched as Eames questioning expression transformed from a sort of calm to a deep simmering storm. He could see the shock on her face, and he could sense the hurt and confusion building with each passing second. Without warning, her head turned towards him, he tried to look down, but he knew that she'd caught his gaze but for a half-second. He could only guess at her perceptions at this point: that her fears were now confirmed, (he'd kept this from her, he'd lied, and after all they'd been through as partners).

He continued to watch her through the window, his mechanical pencil held loosely through his fingertips, impotent at best - as he was unable to brainstorm any further, as there was nothing to hide now. Eames appeared to listen carefully to all the things Ryan had to say, she asked a few questions, thanked him for his time, gave him a business card and slowly stood up to walk Ryan to the elevators.

He waited in utter fear, sick with apprehension. What could come of this?

Several minutes passed and Eames did not return. With each passing second he felt more and more light headed and a touch nauseous. His pencil fell to the wayside and he closed his notepad just seconds before she startled him by entering quietly through the door. He didn't look up when he heard to door shut tightly behind them.

Eames face was guarded, he'd seen it a million times during an investigation; an interview, speaking to the victim's friends and family, during an interrogation, undercover or on the stand. This was the face Eames put on for others – but certainly not for him.

She remained silent, as if uncertain of how to start the conversation, or perhaps she was waiting for him to start talking. Her arms were crossed, her head lowered slightly so that her hair cast shadows around her eyes. He noticed her thumb and pointer finger playing together slightly, the area around the corner of her mouth twitched seconds before her mouth opened.

"I," she started a bit shakily, "I want to hear your side of the story before I make any rash judgment."

He blinked a few times, afraid to open his mouth, he'd already known that nothing good could come from his decision to keep his partner out of the loop, and that keeping the information from Eames was just as guilty as lying directly to her.

"There's nothing to say," he spoke barely above a whisper, "it's exactly what you think it is."

"So," Eames breathed out heavily through her nose and brushed a few strands of hair from her face, "You went to stake out "R" when I told you to go home and get some rest, and now I come to find out there is an entire back-story . . . and, I mean," Eames shook her head in disbelief, "how long have you been keeping this from me? Who is Bianca Meyers?"

Goren shook his head, "now is not the time or place."

"Can you imagine what I felt like when Mr. Teague plopped down in your chair and asked me for clarification?"

"I'm sure it was uncomfortable," he said quietly, refusing to meet her eye, before adding "and I'm sorry about that."

"And do you actually believe that if this situation were reversed . . ."

He interrupted her before she could finish her sentence, "I'd be furious and hurt," he answered holding his head in his left hand, his leg shaking uncontrollably, "but can you please trust me on this one?"

"Bobby," her voice commanded that he look at her, "I am trying not to be condescending when I say this, but we are partners. We've even been more than partners at one point. So please just get over yourself on this one."

He knew when he was beat, and he knew that he'd have to spill everything - absolutely everything. But presently, all he could do was cradled his head with both hands, for he felt that his head was starting to spin; he started trying to say that maybe they should go find a quiet, private place to speak, one that didn't have windows (so they could avoid arguing in a glass house so to speak) when he started to hear the now familiar buzzing noise in his ears. He tried to speak louder because it was becoming difficult for him to hear his own voice. Without warning he was losing his vision before he heard Eames call out for him a few times. Only he couldn't respond.

"Bobby?"

"Bobby? Are you okay?"

"Bobby!"

He felt a cool burst of air near the back of his neck and then he was aware that he'd fallen, he was lying on his side but he couldn't will his eyes to open.

After the passage of an unknown amount of time, the buzzing noise subsided and if he focused carefully, he could detect what sounded like human voices; human voices that sounded strangely unclear, muffled and rather tinny at times, as if they were light years away from him, or in another room perhaps.

" . . . he just passed out, he's breathing, but someone needs to call an ambulance."

"An ambulance? Are you crazy? Grab a squad car, that'll get him to the hospital much faster,"

"And who is going to lift him?"

"Bobby? It's me, Alex."

He felt her breath on his face, and he blinked a few times to try to jump-start his vision. After a few seconds he could begin to see splotches of color that slowly began to resemble the shape of her face.

"Hang in there, an EMT will be here soon."

He felt her hand holding tightly on to his, her other hand was stroking his face. And in the surreal moment of it all, he felt as if he were on a cloud. He couldn't describe how relieved he felt just knowing that she was there with him, holding his hand when they came to take him away. If he was going to die, he selfishly wanted her to be with him until the end, until his last breath escaped.

"You are going to be okay," she whispered close to his ear, "hang in there, I'm not mad at you yet . . . but I'm going to be seriously upset if you don't hang in there."

He tried to speak, to nod; to say anything to let her know he was still there with her, but he needed to close his eyes, and that's when everything went black yet again.


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Nine_

October 17, 2004 – New York Downtown Hospital, Manhattan, NY

The hospital was only minutes away by vehicle, but getting there seemed to take hours.

He kept coming in and out of a deep fog, Eames appeared in abstract patches of color, but all that intense focusing hurt his eyes - thus he opted to close them entirely, relying instead on the wonderful sense of touch: her hand held his, massaging it repetitively in a circular motion, and even through this simple, selfless act, he could sense her fear. Eames was now on rote, he heard her voice now and again: her conversations directed at one of the two EMT's that were busy running peripheral scans of his over-exhausted body.

"Is he going to be okay? I mean, what sort of tests do you think they'll run – will they need to admit him? He doesn't have family in the area, I'm his partner, I can sign off on some items, we filled out the appropriate legal paperwork together because of our line of work, you know?"

It was Eames' voice all right. But this time her voice sounded muffled and strangely uncertain as she rambled on, which contrasted sharply against her usual straight-to-the-point vocalizations.

When he felt her hand slip from his grip, he panicked for a split second before realizing that she'd only let go in order for them to take his blood pressure. The hands that were now on him were clearly more mechanical than Eames: quickly releasing his arm from his jacket, unbuttoning the cuff and releasing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt to expose the skin just above his elbow joint. He wondered if Eames was still there, watching him helpless, observing quietly as they pulled him apart in this rather haphazard way.

Within moments he could sense that she was back, stroking his hair just above the elastic of the oxygen mask.

"We are almost there Bobby - almost there, and you know I won't leave you unless I'm busy filling out insurance paperwork or some other bureaucratic bull. Deakins has pulled Barek off the Michaels' case, and in addition, Kaminsky is available to fill in – temporarily of course, his partner is a witness for Carver this week and, um, okay, we've arrived."

He imagined that she was trying to smile, trying to stay in control and remain calm, but her voice, it was so . . . different.

From there it was lying on a makeshift gurney in one of the many open holding areas in the ER, staring aimlessly at the ceiling lights that dangled just below a grid of colorless paneled rectangular ceiling constructs. Periodically, a nurse would come by to check his vitals. The nurse marked a few notes on a clipboard, asked him if he was comfortable, and mumbled something about how Eames was not allowed to come back with him just yet as there was something about his union insurance, that and the rather awkward questions associated to his relationship to her, and whether legally she would be allowed to be present during evaluation. This all came in spurts, his eyes open and closed as needed until finally the doctor arrived.

"How long have you been having symptoms?"

"For a few days, I guess," his voice croaked strangely.

"I'm looking at the workup and everything is in range. I mean, your cholesterol is a little high, but that's probably in line with the fact that your body mass index is also on the higher side of normal. What I'm more concerned about is your blood pressure: it's definitely out of normal range, high as opposed to low. More puzzling yet, is the fact that you are experiencing extreme flu-like symptoms yet your white blood cell count and other determinant factors such as your temperature do not indicate that you are fighting a virus or some other foreign intruder."

"So I can be released?"

"In my professional opinion," the doctor started, "you are suffering from exhaustion."

"I don't understand," he started to say before the doctor quietly waved him off.

"I've interviewed your partner to get a better understanding of your general lifestyle, and considering the volume of stress you've been under - the insomnia, the extra caseload, being the main care provider for an ill family member, workaholic tendencies and not to mention your rather unhealthy diet."

"Eames," he grimaced.

"Oh, don't be upset at her," the doctor gently chided, "she only volunteered this information in light of your current situation. It's not hard to see that she cares for you tremendously, and based on your emergency contact information, you should be glad that someone does. Not a day goes by when I don't treat hundreds of folks each day who've got no one looking out for them. Mostly elderly, but you get my drift."

He nodded and swallowed thickly.

"You best start looking after your needs first, or you'll wind up right back in my care."

"Okay," he nodded again.

"I'm releasing you with a note to your current employer – it states that you should seek a professional to help you deal with the stress that is associated with your profession. I also personally recommend that you take at minimum: a week off from regular duty and then return the following week with a lighter workload."

"With all due respect," Goren shook his head slowly, "most adults don't have the luxury to act upon your suggestions, I mean, uh, we have to act accordingly – and in my profession, murders and criminal behavior are a constant."

"I'm not trying to be condescending detective, but I'd hate to add you to the body count. If you keep up this destructive behavior, you're likely to end up at the morgue with your clients."

He started to laugh, and honestly he wasn't sure why. Was it because the doctor had the same quick wit of his partner, or was it that he was still exhausted off his ass and everything was starting to sound rather humorous?

Without much more to note, his doctor slipped off to see another ER patient. Eames seemed to appear out of nowhere, a paper grocery bag in her hand. The worry-line that creased the middle of her forehead was still quite distinct, that and as she stepped closer towards him, he noticed that there were bags under her eyes, perhaps she'd been crying? No. Not that, Eames didn't cry.

"Here are your clothes," she added rather stiffly, before looking away, "I'm out in the main corridor, um, you take a right at the end of the hallway through the doors – I'll be waiting there to give you a lift home."

He nodded, unable to meet her gaze, "I'll be there in a minute."

"Okay," she spoke quietly and bit down on her bottom lip reflexively.

There was an awkward silence that followed before she turned away and walked towards the main corridor in silence.

All he could do was focus on dressing, it was a great tactic, one piece of clothing at a time, trying to avoid having his feet touch the cold antiseptic floor – which was proving to be a difficult task considering that his dress socks were at the bottom of the bag; balled up in his work shoes. What was most strange was the fact that he remembered all the iterations of putting on each element of clothing, but couldn't recall walking down the hallway turning right, finding Eames and piling into the passenger side of her car.

But now, time stalled yet again as he sat next to her, preparing for a very long ride to his Brooklyn stoop. Alleys, double-parked delivery trucks and local shops whizzed by the wayside, as silence sat quietly between them.

Eames was the first one to break the oppressive silence.

"They, um, they found the car."

"Eames?"

"They found the car, the one identified by Jimmy outside of the park."

"Oh," his mind whirred slightly, frowning when he noted that he smelled like a hospital, he must have washed his hands, yes, now he remembered stopping by a men's room on the way out, his hands smelled of hospital antibacterial soap, "do you have any hand cream?"

"Yes," Eames cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, "yes, in my purse."

He felt her eyes scan over him as he sifted carefully into the main compartment.

"Side pocket, zipper." Eames instructed.

"Uh, thanks," he pulled out the lotion and lifted the cap, smelling it briefly before he applied it to his hands – the scent reminded him of her – and he didn't hide the fact that he dabbed a bit under his nostrils, "I don't like the smell of hospital soap."

Eames nodded, slightly bemused .

"Barek said that CSU would have volumes of material to work with," Eames rubbed the crease between her forehead with her index and middle finger, "I guess old Edwards is gonna hafta take his acting to the courtroom."

He nodded and smiled before pausing to say what he'd been meaning to say the entire length of the car ride, "thanks for taking care of me."

She nodded back, looking straight ahead into the sea of red taillights, "when you are better, I mean, when you feel that you can-"

"I'll tell you," he rubbed his eyes, "I'll tell you everything right now."

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Eames biting down on her upper lip before exhaling deeply through her nose.

"It started a while back, uh," he fidgeted a little, readjusting the strap of his seat belt, "but it culminated a few days back when I got a call on my answering machine."

And with that, he threw all his chips on the table.


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter Ten_

October 17, 2004 – Brooklyn, New York

They sat face to face in the main living area of his rather disparate one-bedroom apartment. As he was the one who had recently been released from the hospital, Eames insisted that he take the armchair while she pulled a conventional wooden dining set chair into his peripheral, (it was the only other chair in his apartment, pulled from his make-shift home office table).

Goren had been afraid of this moment all along. What would Eames think? What would her reaction be? It was the first time he'd ever been dishonest with her. He scratched the back of his head, and sighed before he told her all of the sordid details: the incendiary voice message, his relationship with Bianca, how the letter from "R" tied into the plot, and finally, what transpired in the lower lobby of One Police Plaza.

Eames remained piercingly intense yet remarkably quiet, thoughtful by all counts, but he couldn't help but note that she was carefully restraining herself from interrupting, or judging for that matter. She was listening, carefully absorbing his tale in her most professional detective mode.

It wasn't lost on him that within a few feet of his armchair was the very same area where, nearly two years ago, she had approached and embraced him, nuzzled his neck gently and made the first motions that had catapulted them into his bedroom: a place where she had made up her mind to sleep with him – and where he'd decided that he was willing to ride out his fantasy.

He remembered many details from that particular evening: that it wasn't perfect, and in fact it was generally awkward at times. But despite the imperfection of their first sexual encounter, nothing could compare to the more recent compromising situation he'd placed himself, or rather that Nicole Wallace had helped place him in.

As he finalized his detailed explanation of how things came to pass over the past few days, Eames remained pensive, so much so that it started to unnerve him.

"I, uh, obviously, I still have the message on my machine."

Eames left hand was placed over her mouth, doing what she could to give away any strong emotions. But after another uncomfortable thirty seconds passed, he realized that she wasn't simply trying to cover her emotions, but rather, she was doing everything she could not to lose them in front of him entirely.

"I'm so sorry, Eames – I didn't, please, uh, please understand that I didn't do this to – I, uh, I, I - "

He stopped mid-sentence as he was stammering, unable to spit it out, distracted by her pain, and starting to feel like he might be on the verge of emotional breakdown as well.

"I - I wanted to protect you."

And to show her the deference that she deserved, he steadied himself out of his armchair and walked over to the answering machine to share with her the most deplorable evidence.

"No," Eames finally spoke up quietly, but authoritatively, "Bobby sit down. We are not going to listen to that right now."

His eyes locked on to hers briefly so that he could silently inquire for more clarification.

"It's not necessary for me to hear something that is going to upset you while you are battling exhaustion. And I feel I should warn you, that if I hear her repulsive voice and threats against you, I may very well have to hunt her down and kill her on the spot."

He took comfort in her words, as this was the familiar sharp-witted Eames that he'd come to fall in love with.

He was nearly plopped back down in his chair when he heard her continue to mumble something about how her father warned her about doing things when she was in a fighting mood. If he still didn't feel so worn down, he'd have actually smiled. Something he hadn't managed for days.

He watched her stand up quickly and pace back and forth a few strides, "Look, I'm going to order in some "pho" from that place two blocks down on the corner. You are going to rest, no questions asked, and if you think that you can prevent me from looking after your sorry-ass over the next few days, you are clearly remiss."

"Oh, no, don't take that down -"

"Exactly as I said," Eames replied sorely.

"But that's over a weeks worth of -"

"You can't honestly believe that you won't experience some serious wrath for all that you've withheld from me over the last week. I assume they have a night drop off?"

"Yes," he acknowledged in a rather resigned tone, "but this is the last time you'll ever drop off my dry cleaning."

With that, he lost sight of Eames as she shuffled outside his door, dragging his bag of dirty clothes. He heard her struggle with the lock on the door. The lock was a bona-fide pain in the ass, but finding housing with rent control was one of the many details that made the lock issue and persnickety elevator but minor irritations.

Rubbing his eyes, he stifled a yawn. He picked up a copy of a Kundera's _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_ – a book that he'd read years ago as a youth. Hoping to quiet his mind while he waited patiently for Eames, (he wanted to be awake for her when she returned with their "pho."), he used his left thumb to flip through the pages lazily, until his finger caught the top of page thirty-one, a page that was dog-eared, therewith, he gently flattened the spine of the paperback and read an underlined passage, "For there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one's own pain weighs as heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes."

He was struck by that consideration, but continued to read the rest of the page. At some point, he fell asleep, only to be jarred awake by the knowledge that he was supposed to be waiting for Eames to return. He registered that he must have been asleep longer than he'd expected, for when he opened his eyes, it was now quite dark, no twilight moon, the sound of traffic had died down considerably such that a car drove by only periodically. His body felt stiff, and his mind was foggy. How long had he been out?

As his brain slowly came into full consciousness, he sat up abruptly, once again startled by the sound of the book as it hit the carpet-less floor.

Where was Eames? She should have been back by now! Perhaps she had let him sleep, perhaps there would be a note on his kitchen counter. He stood up slowly, turned on a few lights and searched quietly for any sign. When he failed to discover a note, a voice message, evidence of "pho" anywhere in his refrigerator, or any clear indication that Eames had returned, he allowed himself to panic.

His message machine was eerily quiet. He found his cell and dialed her number. No answer. No fucking answer. He closed his eyelids and counted slowly back from ten. This was all happening too soon. Should he trust in Eames and obey his partner? (his heart said yes) or should he make sure she was okay and deal with her wrath later?

And with that, his head overruled his heart. He pulled on his black pea-coat and in no particular order, grabbed his badge, wallet and gun.


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter Eleven_

October 18, 2004 – (12:13 a.m.) Brooklyn, New York

Within a heartbeat, Robert Goren was out the door to find his Eames. Fuck trying to lock his troublesome door. There was no time for details.

His body was running on pure adrenaline now. He paused briefly outside the elevator. Should he use the elevator? For the second time this evening, he counted backwards from ten to one in his head; it was a technique he'd learned early on – one that always seemed to help him focus in times of crisis. Using the elevator would be faster than walking down all those goddamned stairs, and he was fucking exhausted. He quickly considered both outcomes, but what if tonight was the night the elevator jammed? (And if Nicole was involved?) He shook his head and opened the door to the stairwell.

When he reached the ground floor he decided to slip out the side door, which promptly swung sharply behind him, nearly clipping his side. Like many city doors, it was constructed of solid materials and "heavy as all get out," ready to spring back into the closed position as a standard safety precaution.

The night air was crisp and cool, and just as he was catching his breath from doubling down the flights of stairs, the air stung at his lungs and he felt compelled to cough. Clearing his throat, he continued his double pace towards the Vietnamese restaurant; wishing now that he would have remembered his wool toque, scarf and gloves. His ears and fingertips were already starting to feel the cool bite of the mid-October evening air.

The familiar apartment buildings and street-level stores seemed to float by his peripheral, indistinct at best, but only because his eyes were trained in the direction of the restaurant.

Without warning, he remembered that she would have dropped off his dry-cleaning first (_shit)_ he was now headed in the opposite direction. If he was going to work this situation in the same methodical manner he approached his every-day profession, he would need to shadow each of her steps. He turned around immediately and headed for the cleaners.

As his eyes were finally adjusting to the low light, he walked a pace slower, scanning the street-side for any movement as he neared his apartment building. Save the car that passed in either direction of the street, there was very little human activity. During the warmer months, his street would see more action even at this hour, but on this October night, the cold weather and shorter daylight hours appeared to have the opposite effect.

Finally, he was within range of his building, passing the now empty pizza parlor on his left, and then the alley between the parlor and the first apartment building on his block. It was within a few feet of the first apartment building that he noticed something was out of place; or rather something was not quite right.

He'd walked this same route home everyday, so yeah, even in low light, he had a general sense when things were out of place. Tonight the chain on one of the chain-link gates was unlocked and slightly ajar. For a few years, his neighborhood had recently taken to locking up the entry way to the alleys during both night and day to keep the many homeless individuals out of the trash bins. He puzzled momentarily as he hadn't noticed that minor detail on his first jaunt down the sidewalk - perhaps it was because he had his tunnel vision set on the restaurant.

When he edged his way through the gate opening, and took a few steps in, he saw it: the human-like form that lay crumpled on the ground. It was still too dark to see the details, but easy to recognize that the form was human. As he edged closer, he saw what appeared to be a bag of garbage to the right of the body.

His heart skipped a beat with each step, his bag of dirty clothes? Eames?

Suddenly, all he could hear was his own breathing, he heard nothing else, his heavy breathing and heartbeat drowned out any other sound. His eyes were transfixed as time slowly grinded to a halt.

How many dead bodies had he seen in his life? How many had been dumped in various unremarkable locations? This wasn't the first body he'd investigated in an alley. But Eames? In a fucking alley in Brooklyn?

The arms of the body formed the letter "S." The right arm was held high and curled above the head in a defensive gesture, the left arm curled downward in the opposite direction, (only a few feet from what he now recognized as his dry cleaning bag), as if the victim had refused to let go.

Suddenly he was aware of a warm tear trailing down his left cheek. "Why didn't you let go Eames? Why didn't you protect yourself?"

He knelt down to get a closer look, her eyes were mercifully closed, and in the low light, her pale visage looked as if she might be sleeping.

He hesitated slightly before taking an even closer look: there was no visible bruising or cuts that he could see - no sign of a struggle. He wanted to touch her face, but he was deathly afraid of the information that could be obtained in doing so; he'd then have an idea of how long she'd been lying in this godforsaken alley while he was upstairs in his apartment catching some fucking z's.

Her jacket was parted slightly, so he lifted the right side gently to see if she'd had her weapon at the time of the attack. Nothing. Eames had taken her piece off. The holster was off, which made fucking sense, she was off-duty, and she'd probably taken off most of her gear at the hospital and left it in her SUV.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered, when his hand brushed the side of her slight little frame, "Jesus Christ," he spoke again aloud, her body was no longer soft, warm, and full of fucking life. This was real. This was fucking real. He rested the weight of his right hand on her thigh, and it was cold, cold and already slowly starting to go into rigor. He felt another tear follow the curve of his right cheekbone, only to fall onto his neck, the liquid already shockingly cold due of the temperature.

"Eames," he whispered, "what happened?"

He spoke to her quietly, as if she were still with him, as if this was just another casual conversation at the scene of yet another crime. He steadied his shaking hand, and deftly lifted up the rest of her jacket and that's when he saw it.

Nicole-Fucking-Wallace. The hypodermic needle was still hanging loosely to Eames' mid-ribcage. It had gone through the thin stylish brown sweater, the tiny cotton blue dress-shirt, past her dermal layer and into her deeper tissues nestled between her ribs.

That's when the tears started streaming fast and furious, his vision was blurring, and he felt more helpless than he'd ever felt in his entire fucking worthless life. He brushed away the tears so he could remove the syringe, he worked his fingers under the two layers of clothing to see if he could get a look at the puncture, the light was so low, yet there was a little discoloration around the area in question. He carefully ran his index finger up and down the area, enough to feel the infinitesimally small hole where the needle had pierced Eames' side.

"Oh god, Eames," he moaned painfully, "she got you."

He sat down from his kneeling position and pulled her shirt back down before carefully buttoning up her pea-coat. He brushed a few errant hairs out of her eyes while quietly mumbling through tears, "She must have surprised you Eames. She must have stalked you out here. Did she lure you? She knew your weakness to help all those in need. Did she pose as a victim? Did she call you for help?"

And it was by laying out question after question to his non-responsive partner that his brain finally registered that he should stop being a detective, he should stop asking her questions. Eames was gone. And with that level of comprehension, he turned inward - only to find himself reaching for the faith of his childhood; a faith that was seeped in prayer and ritual. He was reminded that Eames had been raised Catholic too.

"Hail Mary, Full of grace - " but he choked on his own saliva before he could finish the prayer. His fingers fumbled in his jacket before he found the pendant Eames gave him for Christmas. He carefully strung the chain around her neck. His fingers, now surprisingly steady, worked carefully to open and close the clasp; albeit they were wet with his tears and hence burning from the cold. He placed a kiss on her forehead. There was something about the way her skin felt under her lips, a finality in it all that made something break inside of him. That's when he really lost it.

"Oh Jesus, it's okay," he heard it again and again, but he was out of control, the sorrow and the horror of what had transpired gripped him to the bone.


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter Twelve_

October 18, 2004 – (12:15 a.m.) Brooklyn, New York

"Oh Jesus, it's okay, it's okay. It's going to be okay. It's going to be -"

"Bobby? Bobby."

And now he could be certain that he was going mad. He knew it. He could hear her voice.

"Bobby, please. Are you okay? I think you are having a nightmare."

"Eames?" he managed.

"Are you okay?"

"Eames," he tried to steady his breath, but he only succeeded in shaking uncontrollably.

"Are you okay?"

He nodded slowly, gasping in the process. The dark alley dematerialized before his eyes. Eames' crumpled body was gone, (though the frightening image was forever imprinted in his mind). His eyes scanned wildly as he re-adjusted his attention to the fact that all along he'd been in his armchair, in the middle of his familiar living area: just as Eames had left him before he'd fallen asleep.

"You started talking in your sleep. I mean," Eames puzzled, "I thought you were asleep. I wanted you to get rest, but you started going off about something."

"She got you, uh, Nicole, she used a syringe, she killed you – you were in the alley, uh, the one that is just west of my place, near the pizza joint, uh, the one I walk by everyday."

He reached out for her instinctively, (as if by touching her, the dream might fully be erased).

Eames turned around quickly and grabbed a napkin to wipe off the corners of her mouth and hands, "Sorry," she mumbled, "I got the broth all over myself, you know, I was never that good at slurping up the noodles."

He watched her pull the desk chair up to the side of his armchair. She let him take her arm, "see . . . she didn't manage."

"It seemed so real," he felt strange, a bit foolish really, but, shit, that dream nearly killed him. Or fuck, this could be the dream. Right? He needed proof. Without saying a word, he pulled her in by the arm; very close, so that he could feel the heat emanating from her body. He instinctively brushed her hair to the side so that he might lose himself in the visage of her familiar face: all high cheekbones, contrasting perfectly against her soft brown eyes and sweet little turned-up nose. He leaned in even closer, to take in her scent. And she was exactly who he expected her to be.

Eames turned her head away slightly, "We've been here before," she spoke softly, leaning a little farther away from him, carefully taking control of her personal space.

"Wait," he said rather forcefully, his left hand gently pushed her right arm back, and he noted that her holster and weapon were not on her person. She squinted, and cocked her head, while he started to lift her sweater and dress shirt.

"Hey," she batted back at his hand.

"No," he continued, "I need to see something."

"Are you alright?"

He leaned in, his face inches from her midsection, his finger prodded the skin around her lower ribcage. After he was satisfied, he stepped back (but not before taking one more waft of her scent and stealing a peak at the bra she was wearing for that brief split second. It wasn't necessary, but he couldn't resist. Her bra was black, no under-wire, and her scent was that of the familiar lotion that she applied after showering.)

"It was so real," he whispered, "she used a hypodermic needle – like she has in the past."

"I'm sorry," Eames looked genuinely crestfallen, "I imagine it was quite painful."

"Unbelievably so," he replied quickly, "enough to start me thinking."

"I think you've had enough thinking for the night."

He sighed again, still trying to shake off the uncomfortable vision of seeing her lying lifeless in the back alley.

"Do you want some pho?"

He shook his head.

"I think you need to eat."

"Give me a moment," he sat back in his chair, "I'm still trying to lose this image, uh, erase this dream from my head."

"The nightmare," Eames corrected, as she walked away, only to return with two bowls of soup.

He took his bowl of soup from her reluctantly, "where did you find the bowls?"

"They weren't clean," Eames lifted an eyebrow, "I hand washed them – it's like you never use your kitchen.

He nodded, taking a sip.

"And here," Eames pulled out a pair of chopsticks, separating them before she handed them over, "I know that you know how to use these."

"Did you even try?"

"No," Eames eyes were rather wide and her expression somewhat playful, "last time I tried using those things, it took me twenty extra minutes to eat – and I lost about half of the food in the process."

"First you rub them together to get off all the little splinters," he showed her carefully, "then you place the first one between your thumb and your – "

"I know, I know," Eames laughed, "you show me every time!"

And it was like music to his ears, as for a brief moment in time there was no hurt between them, no complications, just like it use to be. He carefully observed all of her familiar mannerisms, the way she looked up at him after she cracked a joke, and finally, the way she stared right back at him before playfully pretending to ignore his multi-quirks.

"Boy," Eames face transformed yet again, "that dream really messed you up. I can tell by the way you keep looking at me. It's like you've seen a ghost."

"I've never been so lost in my life," he admitted, taking another few spoonfuls of broth.

"Look," Eames set her bowl down on the floor, and carefully made a point to hold his gaze, "I'm not going to burden you while you are recovering, however, we really need to - or at least I need to figure out what is going on in your head."

"I owe you a more detailed explanation."

"No," Eames paused, "It's more than that. You did a pretty good job at filling in the blanks. But after all we've been through, I feel like," she paused again, as if choosing her words with extra care, "I feel like in the past, we use to communicate better. Or rather, that this wouldn't have happened like this, or I hope it wouldn't have."

He nodded, agreeing completely.

"It's getting late," Eames glanced down at her cell phone briefly, "I'm going to get going after I'm convinced that you are going to eat your food and sleep."

"I'll sleep when I know that you've decided to keep your weapon on your body."

"You forget, Nicole doesn't stand a chance against me," Eames scowled slightly before pointing towards her head, "because I don't let her in here."

"Where's your weapon Eames? Your backup?"

"You're paranoia knows no bounds, Bobby, you are worse than my father!"

"Don't go," he tried to say it without sounding pathetic, "you can have my bed. I'll sleep out here. You, uh, you don't understand: I can't sleep after seeing you like that - and I won't let you leave this house without some form of protection."

"You are not going to sleep in that chair."

"I've slept in this chair more than I've slept in my bed."

"The bed is for girlfriends?"

At first, he decided to ignore that comment entirely, but on second thought, "exactly. Which is why you should take it."

"So now I'm your girlfriend?"

"Eames," he said a bit exasperated, "as Nicole has figured out, you are just about everything to me."

And with that, he silenced her completely. Her expression was actually hard to read.

"Look Eames," he looked down momentarily, "Alex. If I could figure out how to understand _this_," he gesticulated with both hands to emphasize _this_ (as in them, their relationship, the whole fucking ball of wax), "I, uh, uh, I can't figure this out. It's us, it's my life, it's our partnership, it's what you mean to me, I can't figure out the right balance."

Eames sighed heavily and ran her right hand through her hair, "I've been afraid of this. That's why sleeping here doesn't seem like a good idea."

"I know how to behave myself."

"You are assuming that I know how to behave myself," Eames spoke frankly, "this is all very complicated, Goren, and sleeping together again is not going to make this any clearer – and you need to know this," Eames paused, her face scrunched up a bit, "I'm still trying to deal with you shutting me out of this. And believe me, if you hadn't conked out at the station, you'd have had your hands full with me."

He noted that this was the second time she shifted slightly towards using a more professional manner towards him. She was being very careful around him.

"I get it," he nodded slowly.

"No," Eames started, "I don't think you do. Nicole's wrath? You should worry about mine. Since when do you not come to me when you have a problem?"

"No, no, no, Eames," his right pointer finger wagging back and forth, "why don't you see, uh, why don't you understand that I had to protect you."

"From who Bobby?"

"From me. You know, fucking up your career."

"And how is this helping?" Eames posed angrily, her hands on her hips.

"Stay," he spoke in his most commanding voice, (he'd never used it on her because he knew he didn't have the right, but fuck, he just wanted her to stay put.)


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter Thirteen_

October 18, 2004 – (12:43 a.m.) Brooklyn, New York

"Stay, Eames."

He could sense her inner struggle; her pose changed three times in under five seconds.

"I thought you were trying to establish balance. How is this good for balance?"

"And you are here to ensure that I can get some sleep?" he responded quickly.

"Unbelievable," Eames muttered under her breath, "I'm not the suspect, don't answer my question with a question."

"I'm asking you to stay," and for the first time in a long time, he met her eyes and stared into them for over two seconds, (a record perhaps?)

"I must be out of my fucking mind," Eames groaned as she placed her cell-phone down rather soundly on his floor, "but to be clear, this is not going to end up with us in the same bed. No sex."

"No sex," he repeated for good measure.

With that said, he eased his way out of the armchair to get ready for bed, to prepare her bed, but he could hear her mumbling about "him taking advantage of her genuine concern for him," or something like that.

She could be so goddamned stubborn. He shook his head slowly as he headed down the short hallway to his bedroom, "I'm going to change the sheets."

"So this is about the dream?" Eames queried, following closely in his wake, "What exactly did Nicole say to you in that message?"

"It wasn't just the message," he sighed, running his right hand through his hair, "it was connecting the dots, it was about understanding Nicole's thought process – putting together her comment about my responsibility for taking Ella away from her and, later when she spoke with me on the phone, she basically relayed to me that she understood how I felt about you and, uh, well you get the picture."

"You believe she's going "old testament" on you?"

"An eye for an eye," Goren continued to rub at his temples before flipping on the light switch which revealed his overly modest bedroom; one that was mostly populated by books neatly stacked in piles on the floor.

Eames mouth twitched slightly, "look, my bad. We really need to postpone talking about that twisted psychopath. I can see how much this is upsetting you – and considering that it was my intention to ensure your wellbeing. Well, lets just say that I'm failing miserably."

"Not anymore," he noted, "you are giving me piece of mind by choosing to sleep here, uh, after I change the bedding of course."

"You don't need to change the bedding," Eames raised both of her eyebrows, "I said I was going to stay, but I didn't clarify where I was going to sleep."

He frowned in comprehension, "but-"

"No buts," Eames countered, "Get in bed, I'm taking the armchair."

If he didn't still feel like shit, he might have put up a fight. And the earlier comment about sex? What was Eames thinking? He'd be lucky if he didn't pass out on the way to the toilet.

She stood by the doorway, half in shadow, as he climbed into his bed. The mattress sagged as his six-four and two hundred and twenty plus pounds frame took over the majority of the queen-sized dimensions.

When his head hit the pillow, he turned on to his left side, facing the door that now framed Eames' petite profile. His eyes were heavy, so heavy, that he knew he'd not be able to be conscious for much longer.

"Goodnight Goren," Eames spoke softly, "I'm not going anywhere."

And before he could form the words "goodnight," he fell fast asleep.

* * *

October 18, 2004 – (9:55 a.m.) Brooklyn, New York

His eyes fluttered open, only to note the morning sun playing through his blinds. Suddenly he was very aware of the fact that he'd never bothered to climb out of his clothes, nor attend to any nighttime rituals last night.

He felt strangely sedate for this hour of the morning, especially considering that he'd not felt normal in days. Rather he'd felt as if he were chronically responding to the barrel of a gun. But this very morning, as he became aware of his surroundings, the pleasant aroma of coffee wafted in from his kitchen, the muffled sounds of a one-sided conversation; Eames working from his apartment on her cell.

He attempted to get up, but his body felt like it had been run over by the A-train. Maybe he should just enjoy the moment? Nah, not with Eames sitting out in his living area.

With that, he eased his heavy frame out of bed, and changed into fresh casual clothing, before wrapping up in his robe. With warm woolen socks (a Christmas gift from his mother last year), he was able to quietly pad out of his room to observe her before she'd take notice of his presence.

Stifling a yawn, and scratching at his now two day old beard, he observed her lovely profile hunched over her laptop at his makeshift desk. She had taken over his area quite nicely, one of his mechanical pencils was in her right hand and she was doodling on a notepads as she spoke with a detective from Major Case. After listening in for thirty seconds or so, he derived that she was assisting co-worker Jeffries by giving him a few of her old contacts from the time when she worked in Vice.

Jeffries was a nice enough guy, a competent detective at Major Case, and most importantly, he was too old for Eames.

Watching Eames work was nothing new, he did it all the time, he knew all of her peculiarities: how she doodled on her notes, the way she'd rub her fingers at the edge of her mouth when she was deep in thought. And then there was that adorable finger picking that she seemed to do in conjunction with general brainstorming or rudimentary problem solving – mostly she did it with her right hand. She'd pick at the corner of her thumb with her pointer finger: click, click, click.

Although he couldn't see her face from this angle, he predicted that she was probably chewing on her upper lip. Indeed, it was safe to say that he knew her better than he knew any other human, (save perhaps his own mother).

Presently, Eames was studying something on her laptop, he saw watched her lean in and squint, (why don't you get reading glasses, Eames?), from his perspective, it looked like a database. He watched as she punched in numbers on her cell before leaning back in his wooden chair.

"Hello, Mr. Teague?"

He flinched unconsciously when he heard the name.

"Yes, yes, it's Detective Eames from Major Case."

He steadied his breath and stood very quiet in order to absorb every aspect the conversation.

"That's right, and I'm going ask you for any information that you could possibly give me to the whereabouts of Bianca Meyers."

He watched Eames jot down a few pieces of information, "that's right, Mr. Teague. And the last time you had contact with her?"

"Great, okay," he watch Eames scribble a few more lines, "I see, and while you were still seeing each other, um, is there any information that she gave you about her past, where she lived, worked, family, friends –"

"How about any alternative numbers? I know you mentioned that she is no longer taking your calls from that particular cell, and yes, that she has since changed her number, okay, okay, sure thing. Yes, I will let you know what we find out. And please, don't hesitate to call me if you have any questions regarding this case. Okay, thank you."

He watched as Eames ended the conversation. She was staring at the display on her phone, writing down the number, before she dialed out again, "Hi, Douglas? Yeah, it's Eames. Can you pull the LUDs on the following number? Sure, 718 – 248 –9835. Yup, it's a cell. Thanks Douglas."

With that, he came forward, no longer trying to hide his presence.

"Goodmorning sunshine," Eames smiled brightly at him.

He rubbed at his eyes and smiled shyly, "thanks for staying last night, I actually slept."

"Did you ever," Eames replied, "you were snoring at one point - loud, steady and even. Coffee's on and there's bagels and cream cheese on the counter."

An there before him was the assortment of breakfast goodies, as promised. Also on the counter, there was a clean empty coffee mug next to a hot pot of coffee, the bagels were sliced and ready to go.

Within the next second, he experienced a brief fantasy about the future: a fanciful future with Eames in his life: (now just why the fuck did he break up with her?), one where he could chronically observe her beautiful being, sitting at his desk - or sharing a coffee with her like this on their days off; or a pastry, or bagel. The winter sun streaming through his apartment window on a cool October morning – where they could talk about cases until two in the morning and never have to take off to their separate caves. In fact, they'd never have to go outside on a day like today. Hell, they could order in, read books, and most importantly the bedroom was so close. They could be engaged in sexual relations at all hours of the day, perhaps all day for that matter. I mean, why leave the bedroom – well, except for the bagels and coffee.

"Is something wrong?" Eames took a sip of her own brew.

"No, uh, it's all perfect."

"Are you sure you are feeling okay?"

He nodded reassuringly, "No, I was just thinking."

"Time to go catch that rabid-roo?"

He smiled, "rabid-roo."

"I just got off the phone with Teague. I'm going to have Mrs. Meyers, or Mrs. Giovanni, or whatever-the-fuck-her-name-is in the "hot" seat before the day is out."

Her exuberance to hit the ground running, when he was still compromised, struck a chord. He tried to hide his concern, but as usual, she noticed.

"We're going to get her Bobby, and this time I'm going to make Nicole pay through the nose."

As pleased as he was that she'd decided to call him Bobby, (not to mention that he marveled at how protective she could be of him, she wasn't the 'showy' type, but he liked it when she got fierce on his behalf, as if she wore her loyalty to him on her sleeve), he was worried about the meeting of Eames and Giovanni/Meyers. The nightmare was still fresh in his mind, and this time, for whatever it was worth; Nicole Wallace had managed to scare the shit out of him.

It was at the forefront of his brain: there _was_ something that Nicole could take away from him. And while he never doubted that Eames was a competent officer, he knew only to well that Wallace was a groomed killer. He wanted to keep Eames as far away from Nicole as possible.

* * *

A.N. – Credit, where credit is due: "Rabid-roo" is the property of one my kind reviewers.


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter Fourteen_

October 18, 2004 – (4:43 p.m.) One Police Plaza, Manhattan, NY

Eames dropped him off at the office mid-afternoon. He had to work pretty hard to convince her he should be around for the interrogation of Bianca Meyers/Giovanni.

"I'll stay out of your way," he clarified, "and unless you ask me too, I won't leave the confines of the observation room."

"Serious problems," Eames reluctantly agreed, "serious problems if you are not able to stay in control."

Then, like pre-tweens, they shook on it.

Currently, he confined himself to his desk, ignoring the paranoia in his head that told him every goddamned detective on this floor was talking about him behind his back: _Goren flipped, you should've seen him, his partner found him on the floor of the conference room – passed out like a baby. Why do they keep someone that unstable on the job? I feel bad for Alex Eames. Given her background, she could be captain of just about any unit in the five boroughs._

But that's what it had been like since the beginning: Eames had the detective pedigree, she'd earned her way to Major Case because she'd paid her dues, she performed and got the job done. She was even-keel, steady, but not overly aggressive.

He knew that the "guys" respected her. Something that had to be hard earned for any female on the force. Her pedigree helped, and the sympathy that came with the knowledge that her husband (one of their own) was murdered on the job certainly paved the road for her to Major Case. But beyond her life's circumstances, Eames was a solid detective, one with the potential to have a very bright future with the NYPD.

But fate is a funny thing - for who could have predicted that he and Eames would be partnered together and remain so to this date? The day he'd been assigned to Major Case, Eames already had a partner. As fortune would have it, less than one week in from his hire date, Eames' senior partner, Lee Walters, suffered a minor setback and decided to take on a new assignment. Walters was close to retirement, and during what appeared to be a general day of investigative work, Walters had injured himself while chasing after a suspect on foot: ACL, meniscus tear, or something of that general nature. And boom, all of a sudden, Eames was without a partner.

He generally remembered the day Deakins assigned him to Eames, as it was really the first day he'd even noticed Eames. I mean, he'd probably passed by her on the eleventh floor, it's even possible that he was briefly introduced to her during his first week at Major Case. Sadly, other than the first case he'd been assigned on hand, he remembered very little about meeting her (for one, he barely looked at her, and he was less than interested in building any relationship with her beyond bare minimum. Rather, he wanted to get to the puzzle, find all the pieces and start solving immediately). And so as you see, from the very beginning, he was use to doing things on his own.

Even now, he couldn't remember when it happened, i.e., when he figured it out: that he knew he'd never find anyone like her again, and when he realized that she made him a better detective, and a better person.

When had he started loving her? When did her skills, which complemented his in so many ways, literally became interwoven into his process? (Yes, that was it, she was now part of his process – a process that in it's own strange way, worked better than any other process he'd ever tried in his life).

In so many ways, Eames had become an integral part of him. In other words, he'd finally discovered that if she were ripped from his life, well, its not that he couldn't function, but rather it was that he didn't want to function in any other way. Once you've seen paradise - or so the saying goes.

His cell phone interrupted his thoughts. It was Eames, she was calling, (or texting him rather) to position himself near the observation room – Bianca was on her way.

It was a surreal feeling to be on the other side of the glass. It's not that he hadn't spent hours of his life observing from this perspective, it's just that he'd never been asked to stay on the observation side for the duration of questioning. He and Eames had played every variation of good cop/bad cop. Everytime they had a new suspect, they would decide who should play the lead, as a team (or individually) to come up with the results they needed. They'd gauge who had built more of a relationship with the perp, and asked themselves: Who would the perp trust? Who would the perp confide in? Did the perp prefer a specific gender? He and Eames had it down to a science, and they always had a decent plan of attack.

Today was different: today he felt like the outsider.

He watched as Bianca was escorted into the interrogation room by two uniformed officers. Bianca didn't look up through the glass window, but rather she peeked at her cell for messages before rummaging through a small handbag.

The door behind him to the observation room opened and Eames walked in with a thick folder-file tucked under her arm.

"They'll bring in the video footage too," Eames rested her hand on the ledge of the interrogation room window.

For selfish reasons, (not to mention the continually strong desire to protect her) he felt compelled to prevent/delay the inevitable, "look Eames," he looked down and shifted his weight from his left to right leg, "maybe Jeffries or uh, Barek - uh, maybe you shouldn't do the interrogation."

"I'm sorry?"

"Maybe you shouldn't do the interrogation," but he rephrased his statement quickly as he watched her expression intensify, "uh, or maybe you shouldn't do the interrogation alone."

"I'm not doing the interrogation alone."

"But I'm not allowed in the - "

"You'll be following my cues if we need to conference during the interview."

He nodded, "and I can send one of our own in if I need to alert you."

She nodded back, "I'll be fine and I'll get what I need."

"I know no one better for the job."

Eames eyes twinkled "Now it's my turn to protect you."

"Look Eames, I did this," he frowned, "I don't need to be protected from what comes out of this."

"You were set up," Eames corrected, "and no one else in the department needs to hear the gory details."

He smiled weakly – wanting very much to find his voice to thank her.

But Eames mobilized faster than his thoughts - coming forward to squeeze his arm, she must have read the helpless pathetic expression that washed over his face, "I've got your back," she murmured.

With that, he watched her countenance transform from that of a loyal friend and most fervent advocate - to that of a veteran detective: one with a kind of fierce professionalism that rivaled no other.

Once Eames left the room, he flipped the intercom switch that was located to the right of the window, and leaned in so that his face was nearly touching the quarter inch specialized glass that separated him from his partner and Nicole Wallace's latest pawn.

"Ms. Meyers?"

"Yes."

"Thank you for coming in today to answer a few questions." (Eames was using her curt, intense tone – which at times bordered on condescending).

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't so intensely persuaded to do so."

Eames paused and flashed a pseudo-smile, "you are free to leave at any time during this brief questioning session Ms. Meyers – but even you must understand that clearing up any confusion with me here today would be in your best interest."

"I'm sorry, it must have slipped my mind," Bianca raised her right eyebrow, never taking her eyes off of his partner, "to whom am I having the pleasure of speaking with?"

"It didn't slip your mind," Eames retorted quickly, "I never introduced myself."

"Wow," Bianca laughed, perhaps nervously? "I'm getting the sense that you don't like me."

"Detective Eames," Eames bristled, "and no, I'm not a fan of anyone who starts off a session lying."

"Lying?"

"Yes, 'Bianca Gianna Provenzano,' or that's what your New York state driver's license indicates," Eames smirked in a rather smug way, "so who am I speaking with today? Bianca Meyers? Bianca Giovanni?"

"Ohhh," enlightenment suddenly lit up Bianca's face, "Detective Alex Eames?"

He groaned inwardly, it was going to get ugly fast.

"Just as it says on my badge and driver's license." Eames unclipped her Major Case badge and held it up for Bianca to read.

"Your partner is Robert Goren?"

"Yes," Eames replied quickly, "but somehow you've still neglected to tell me why you have so many monikers. And if you hadn't noticed, you are in my house now – where I ask the questions."

"People in the entertainment industry have multiple names, it's no big thing."

"And is that it, Ms. Provenzano? You are in the entertainment industry?"

"Not anymore, I've met someone who's helping me get back on track. I've been accepted at Hudson University this coming fall semester – into their MBA program if you must know."

"And this individual who is giving you a helping hand, what does she get in return?"

"Well, it is a _she_, detective. Congratulations. But I'm not here to talk about her," Bianca's eyes narrowed, "by the way, where is your partner? I've seen enough cop shows, don't you usually work as a team?"

"Detective Goren's whereabouts are not your concern," Eames spoke calmly, unaffected at best, as she slowly opened the folder and pulled out several gruesome autopsy photos, "rather, what you should be concerned about is staying out of this folder."

Bianca snorted, "She warned me you would try to use a scare tactics. What should these photos mean to me?"

Eames carefully lined up the photos and drew each of the connections to Nicole Wallace, "and you are simply her latest pawn Ms. Provenzano. Nicole Wallace _is_ a deadly woman, a true sociopath: one that lacks the ability to feel empathy and will do whatever it takes to get back at anyone who doesn't bend to her will. Especially those who are close to putting her where she belongs: prison. Don't," Eames paused and locked her eyes on to Bianca, "I repeat, don't go down with her. Her body count could very well have her looking at the death penalty. I know you have information about her, and if you are protecting her - "

"I'm not protecting anyone detective," Bianca hissed, "if anything, I'd say you are protecting someone."

"Ms. Provenzano, you didn't let me finish," Eames shook her head slowly, "and it's about time that you understand what will happen if you obstruct our investigation of Nicole Wallace. If found complicit, you would be charged as an accomplice - "

"I won't be charged with anything detective," Bianca laughed, "this is a witch-hunt because I had sex with your partner and then dropped him like a sack of potatoes and then, you know, fucked with him a little."

"You are playing with a very dangerous individual."

"You are only on to me because of your partner."

"My partner and I have no secrets," Eames noted, "but at this place and time, you should be most concerned about being truthful. As you know, this department specifically deals with high-profile cases. This is 'Major Case,' and you would not be pulled into this department unless you had a precarious connection."

"So you know that he fantasizes about you when he has sex?"

"Why did you seek out my partner for sex?"

"He says I did?" Bianca arched her eyebrow, "he was at a bar a few blocks from here – is there something strange about meeting a guy at a bar for drinks and sex?"

"And this is a bar you frequent? Considering where you reside and work," Eames pulled out an information sheet and underlined the addresses, "it seems like you went far out of your radius to hit on – a man that is almost twice your age."

"Is that a surprise? That's what one goes to a bar for."

"And what brought you to this particular neighborhood, to a bar that is predominantly frequented by police officers?"

"I've always had a fantasy to sleep with a cop," Bianca grinned wildly, "and I found a tall, dark and handsome one in a back booth, feeling sorry for himself – brooding, pathetic, depressed and in need of a good fuck."

"There are precincts closer to your home and workplace," Eames suggested, "I'm sure that if you did your homework, you could find one in a heartbeat, but you weren't looking for any officer were you? You were looking for Robert Goren."

"Sure, and he was easy to bed – it didn't take a lot of convincing."

"Ms. Provenzano, why did you single out my partner?"

"As I said, he was an easy fuck, and boy did he need it," she laughed again – an irritating laugh, "I'm not bothering you am I?"

Eames blinked noticeably, but beyond a few facial twitches, she'd really kept her emotions in check, "beyond trying my patience for not answering my questions? This is my last warning: you can save yourself, distance yourself from Wallace, and probably come out unscathed – or you can continue to protect her, and the next time we meet – I won't be so forgiving."

"Everytime we fucked, he called out for you under his breath. He really has it for you. You should know that he wants you sexually, and with that being said, it's probably not going to work out for the both of you. I mean, how can you be the partner to a guy who wants to have sex with you? Talk about a conflict of interest."

"Fine," Eames nodded repeatedly, shuffling the photos and files back together, "I can see that it would be a waste of time showing you the video footage we have of Nicole confessing her identity and illegal activities. You've had your opportunity, but from what I've seen, it appears that you've decided to go down with her."

"He told me after our third meeting that he couldn't get too involved emotionally, he was already in love with someone else, that it was complicated - "

Eames shook her head sadly, "I don't think you understand that you will most likely be her next victim. You need to protect yourself now."

"Well if that's it," Bianca picked up her handbag and stood up to pull on her winter jacket, "I'll be seeing you, detective. Give Robert my regard. If it does work out between you two, he gets very aroused when you kiss his neck and stomach."

Eames sighed heavily and continued to piece together the Wallace file as Bianca Provenzano left the interrogation room. She looked up and shrugged slightly as to give him the indication that he could safely enter the room.

He moved in slowly, afraid of what Eames might think of him at this juncture. He could only reason that if they were to move forward, beyond this unfortunate situation, they'd have to get by all the awkwardness of their past history.

"Eames?"

"I couldn't get to her," Eames rubbed at her eyes and sighed heavily.

"Did she get to you?" he asked rather tentatively.

"Bianca? No," Eames spoke in a very straightforward manner, "but, Nicole? Yes."

"How so?" he gently inquired.

"How so?" Eames ran both of her hands through her hair, "how did she get to me? Well, for one, she got to me through you. She nearly broke us apart in doing so."

"Eames."

"That crazy woman has got to go Bobby - we've got to get her this time. I mean, I can't," Eames paused and scratched under lip, "I can't deal with her getting to you like that. This is the third time Bobby: humiliating you with that bullshit 'tit for tat' interrogation, setting your career up to fail with Croyden – and now, fucking with your personal life."

"Eames."

"No Bobby, don't you get it? She won't stop until she has destroyed you. I won't sit back and let anybody do that to you."

"But," he added painfully, "I didn't have to sleep with her."

"No, you are not seeing it correctly," Eames stood up and approached him slowly, "I don't need to know why you slept with her, as it is, I'm starting to guess at why that might be. But I am a professional first," she looked up slowly at him, "I won't talk about this here at work. However, as soon as you and I take one step out the door, I need to reopen our case."


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter Fifteen_

October 18, 2004 – (7:07 p.m.) Sushi Tatsu, Brooklyn, NY

Maybe it was his Mediterranean background, but he adored watching her eat. She was so tiny, yet she could really pack it away. This merely caused him to wonder: where did all that food go? And of course, she liked the real caloric stuff: the tempura, the udon noodles, and anything that had been doused with teriyaki sauce.

"How do you feel?" Eames queried.

He finished savoring a piece of sashimi in his mouth and swallowed before admitting, "I'm uh, I'm pretty tired."

Eames nodded, "Last night about this time, they were releasing you from the hospital," she slowly sipped another spoonful of broth, "after this, I should get you back home."

Hours earlier, before they left One Police Plaza, Eames spent most of her time in Deakins office, briefing with Kaminski and Barek regarding the Edwards' case. Low profile, he spent that time hidden away in one of the many conference rooms inspecting the footwork that was being done on the case, or what use to be his case – or rather, their case.

On the drive to Brooklyn, they had stopped off at one of their favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurants. He had a penchant for Japanese cuisine, but found it too pricey to eat all the time, especially considering his salary and the New York cost-of-living factor.

"Maybe we should talk about the Nicole stuff tomorrow," Eames spoke thoughtfully, "it's my rotation off, and I could swing by sometime tomorrow once you feel well rested."

There was no sugarcoating it, the day had been extraordinarily difficult for him, and Eames too, no doubt. Despite the soothing properties of the sushi, he felt edgy on the inside. He hadn't had time to process what transpired in the interrogation room.

In some ways it had seemed less painful than he'd expected – but that was probably because of the way Eames carried herself. In addition to Eames demeanor, there was something less frightening about seeing Bianca Provenzano in his domain. But most importantly, when it came down to it, there was something comforting in the way Eames had shielded him so -

"Don't you visit your nephew on your day off?"

"I do," Eames spoke wistfully, "and I still plan on visiting him. I've found that the morning is the best time to see him – an hour before naptime at minimum, and before early evening, you see, he gets fairly cranky in the afternoon."

He felt a little nervous about broaching the next question that entered his mind, "do uh, do you wish you had, uh-"

"No," Eames answered a little too quickly, "I mean, I don't know - but what I do know is that I probably couldn't have this job and a little one. They seem to be nearly incompatible."

(Well put, he thought, he'd couched his being able to have a serious relationship outside of work in the same vein: incompatible.)

Eames looked down at her bowl and prodded a few green onions around the edge of her broth, "I can't help but think that if things were different, Joe and I might have been able to figure it out, some sort of compromise. Don't get me wrong, this job means a lot to me. It's a way of life in some ways, and it's familiar too, I guess."

For some reason, what Eames was imparting on him created an entire new plane of comprehension. A comprehension of sorts that peeled away layers of his being: layers upon layers of sadness that once separated came only to reveal a deep pit of loneliness.

She looked up at him, as if this conversation had jogged her memory, "my nephew was a great distraction though."

"I'm sorry?" he looked up at her nearly consumed by the raw emotions that were churning in his stomach, he wiped his mouth quickly, and took another swig of his Sapporo.

"My nephew helped me, you know," Eames paused before reconsidering her answer, "well, maybe this would be better addressed at a different time."

It was getting late, or perhaps it seemed later because the light was fading in the evening sky a little earlier each day as the solstice approached "I'll get the tab," he offered.

"But I ordered more than half of the food," Eames exclaimed.

He smiled warmly, while his body language squarely suggested that she would not be able to change his mind, "let's get you home so you can do your morning routine and hang out with your nephew."

He knew of her rather ritualistic morning schedule. Eames didn't just have a beautiful body; over the years she had earned it, being a fanatic about running every morning. He knew she used the gym at 1PP too – at least three times a week, and the results were downright distracting.

And what straight man didn't notice her in the office - especially when she was sporting one of those stylish tank tops. But who was looking at the tank? It was her shapely arms, her perfect breasts and the way her badge and identification card framed and accentuated her lovely hips.

For the most part, he had an impeccable talent for focusing in on a case, seeing details others had missed, and with that talent, he'd managed to work with her for years without getting physically hard on the spot. But there had been more than a handful of times that he couldn't block out her beauty, times when he was glad to be sitting safely behind his desk.

So after he paid the tab, and mused heavily about her beautiful body, they sat double-parked in front of his apartment building. Eames flipped on her hazards before adjusting the heat controls in her car a few notches.

"I'll come by mid-afternoon after my date with the little one. We could do lunch, or I could bring lunch?"

He looked down and scratched at his left eyebrow, "okay."

There was an awkward silence as he sat there dumbly realizing that he had nothing to bring home from the office, (a rare occurrence), meanwhile Eames stole glances at him, her right pointer finger repeatedly rubbing the tip of the cuticle on her thumb

"What's wrong?"

He shook his head quickly "Nothing, nothing - everything is good Eames," he paused, "I uh, I'm sorry about today."

She stared straight ahead, nodding slightly, her hands resting on the steering wheel.

Her silence unnerved him slightly so he decided to continue with the apology. For his state of mind tonight – and after the rather intense interview with Bianca, he needed to make things right: "I, I'm really sorry for all, uh, for all of this I've brought upon our partnership," he paused, "and our friendship. I mean, you know, If you feel like, if you think you need a reassignment, I, uh, I want you to know that I wouldn't, I wouldn't think any less of you."

He'd thought he was making the right conciliatory gesture, I mean, it's not like he really wanted her to take the reassignment seriously, but he did want her to know just how fucking sorry he was. But within seconds, it was fairly easy to see that he'd taken the wrong approach.

Eames knuckles tightened around the steering wheel ever so slightly, while her head turned quickly towards him, "Are you being straight with me?"

"I'm sorry?" he blinked repeatedly, a bit put off by her intensity, and irritated that he hadn't left well enough alone. His gut told him he should apologize profusely after today. But clearly this is not what Eames wanted. Now he was stuck in the car with her. I mean, what did she want from him?

"Is this how you deal with issues?"

"I don't understand."

"Maybe you don't," Eames lowered her eyelids, "maybe you really don't understand interpersonal relationships. But that doesn't seem likely considering the techniques you display in the interrogation rooms."

"Eames," he pleaded, "please tell me what you want."

"Right now I want you to find me a legal parking spot, because I'm not going to continue this conversation in the car."

He pointed a few blocks down, "on the right hand side – there are open spots past that hydrant. Uh, and it's only because you'd have to get up at the crack of dawn to move your car – uh they clean that side of the street tomorrow."

With that, Eames showed off some of her best driving techniques, and certainly it was a bit easier to display her parallel parking skills in her tiny sedan versus her police issue SUV.

The walked to his apartment in silence, and continued to do so as they road the elevator, both of them refusing to look at one another, (the situation that had occurred over a year ago in the very same elevator was not lost on either of them.)

Once inside his apartment, he peeled off his jacket and immediately retreated to his kitchen area in order to put on some warm water. He wanted to be a responsible host, but more importantly he wanted to put a little distance between them.

"You need another sitting chair."

"Please, take the armchair," he motioned for her to take a seat.

After a few minutes, he shuffled into the main living area, and handed her a mug of tea, which she accepted quietly. He sat down beside her on the floor, set down his mug of tea and unconsciously loosened his tie.

Eames sat forward, holding the mug with both hands, her hair obscuring a good portion of her profile, "I need to be honest with you Bobby."

He nodded, still refusing to make eye contact, (slightly relieved that she decided to call him Bobby), while pulling off his tie with one hand.

"Going through the interview with Bianca Provenzano was one of the most challenging things I've had to do in a while," Eames sat back into his chair slowly.

He sighed, and took a sip of tea.

"You told me the ins and outs ahead of time, so I knew what I'd be up against," Eames pulled the mug tight into her chest, "But as trained as I am to go into professional mode, this case was personal. And then," Eames cleared her throat slightly, "then, there were the items that I wasn't prepared to hear."

His heart sank. Literally, (or at least it really, really fucking felt like it).

"If you recall, Bianca reported that you confessed that you were emotionally involved with another – a complicated commitment of sorts."

Fuck.

"I need to know," Eames held her mug even tighter, "_who is it_ that you are in love with?"

He was caught off guard by her body language. It wasn't the Eames that he knew from the workplace. Perhaps it was the way the light from his reading lamp caught the profile of her face. Eames looked more tired and worn than he'd ever remembered. Older perhaps? Was this what his behavior was doing to her?

"You know I've never stopped caring about you," he managed to croak out, his voice similarly tinged with emotion, and a touch higher pitched than it had been all evening.

And there, it was out in the open, had it ever been a secret? He breathed out heavily and set his half-empty mug on the floor besides him, (wishing like crazy that he'd poured himself an alcoholic beverage instead of the green tea).

"That's what I was referring to at Tatsu's."

He looked up at her in order to ask for more clarification, "Tatsu's?"

"About my nephew," Eames took another sip of tea, "you need to know that I didn't handle the end of our relationship well, rather, I was mercifully distracted by the birth of my nephew. And Bobby, please, Catholicism aside, I am not trying to guilt you."

This pained him immensely. Understanding Eames' side of the issue, it was pretty simple: he hadn't. No, he'd been pretty selfish on this account. And just why was it that he hadn't put himself in her shoes, or at least tried to make an educated guess at her perspective on the matter of their break up?

He remembered their last night together. The night he decided to end it with Eames. He'd been lying next to her after yet another wondrous session of love-making. He'd been lost in her eyes:

_Her eyes were the same eyes he'd fallen in love with, soft, brown, perfect. The creases in her forehead were only slightly turned downwards, while her nose, (also softer and rounder in her pregnant state), gently sloped upwards, her mouth a touch agape. He could have stared into her eyes forever, searching wildly for the right answer. There was a vulnerability in her face, her head still cocked to the side . . ._

Even back then, he didn't know what to say to her, he could only couch the situation from his perspective. A perspective that told him that Eames: _needed someone that could be responsive to all her needs, at all times. For example, she needed someone who would put her needs above the rest, above work, . . . she needed someone who could say those three words to her – while understanding the implications of those three words. She needed someone who wasn't afraid of those three words. _

And for the most apart, he remembered being fucking terrified.

That's when Eames' voice from the present broke his chain of thoughts; and it was if all along, she'd been reading his mind.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?"

He remained silent, firmly focused on keeping his emotions in tact.

"Do you think about me," Eames spoke quietly, "do you still think about me beyond work? Like, like what Bianca said?"

His brain was running on overdrive. He still didn't know how he should be answering this question. He didn't want to hurt her anymore - and then once again, as if she could read his mind:

"Please stop thinking Bobby," she pleaded, "just tell me the truth. I need the truth. Stop trying to protect me. I can take care of myself."

"But," he rubbed his forehead with his left hand, partially obscuring his left eye, "what good can come of this particular truth? I mean, uh, we can't, it won't work."

"And what of the brooding? What of the next person that comes along and tries to make you part of their life?" Eames prodded gently, "How will you be able to move past this?"

He shook his head, "I don't know."

Eames sighed heavily, and he watched as her eyes moved up and down his body. She then rubbed both of her eyes and held them covered while mumbling, "What am I going to do about you?"

"Eames?"

"Look at your suit."

"Oh," he realized why she was staring, "the dry cleaning will probably be ready tomorrow."

"I haven't seen that outfit in a while," Eames chuckled slightly, but her face was still quite drawn. It was as if she'd learned to insert humor here and there – a very decent coping method – one that allowed her to let go of the pain now and again.

He tried to smile, but found it nearly impossible. Impossible as he was still emotionally exhausted, still too tired to handle all the emotional extremes he'd had to deal with over the past few days: Nicole's emotional games, Eames death in his dreams, Bianca's taunts, and now – revisiting their relationship from last year.

Yet again, as if she had psychic powers, she sat up and came over to meet him at his level, plopping down right next to him.

"There's a reason people choose not to go through life all alone." Eames suggested, the fingers of her left hand brushed a few unkempt hairs and tucked them behind his ears.

He closed his eyes, imagining that it could all work out. He knew what she was referring too. And he'd thought about the notion of being alone quite a bit, and more so with each passing year. After his job; what was next? What if he was injured on the job and had to retire early? The worst sob-stories he'd ever heard were those that dealt with the poor saps that were forced to take an early retirement: in the end, they'd get jobs in private or public security, maybe do some low intensity PI work, or then there were the suckers who blew out their brains when gave up managing their depression.

He always figured he'd be in the later group. No guy wanted to end up on his own. Of course, when he'd started this gig he was young and agile, too intense about getting the next puzzle to solve – and getting women on the side was no issue either. The relationship didn't have to involve his intense work schedule, and they certainly didn't have to last a lifetime.

Now, x-years later, his steps were just a half-shade slower. There was grey tinged to the hair around his neckline, his mid-section was not quite as trim, (and shit, he'd had to go up a pants size in the last year – and he wanted to blame it on his breakup with Eames), all parts of his body had been affected over the years.

And in the past, alcohol had been a pretty decent distraction, maybe he should take up his smokes again too – that had helped curb his appetite. But then, the reason behind why he'd quit in the first place was because Eames detested that particular habit. In actuality, he'd been lackadaisically kicking it when they first started working together. But it sure didn't take her long to cure him – he hated the way she needled him each time he needed to shuffle off for a nicotine break.

So, would his greatest fear go realized? Would he end up all alone in the end? Was and should there be a life for him outside of work after the NYPD wanted nothing to do with him? Would there be other puzzles to solve along the way?

He was distracted out of his evening muse when Eames let her head drop off gently onto his left shoulder. He could smell her before she fell onto his shoulder, but now her scent was overpowering. His muscles relaxed, his blood pressure dropped as he turned into her, dropping his shoulder slightly for her before he rested his left cheek on the crown of her head.

"I love you, Alex."

And there was really nothing more to say. And really, why had those words been so hard to say? She knew it, he knew it, and how they decided to deal with the situation was anyone's guess.

Eames said nothing, she just nestled in closer, her head arched upwards slightly and he felt the bridge of her nose pressing into his neck.

They sat together like that for a long time, until his left thigh ached and his back started to feel stiff, followed quickly by a tingling sensation in his ankles and shoulders from lack of circulation. He shifted, and then Eames shifted before she finally planted a kiss on his jaw-line, whispering that she'd be back in the afternoon as planned.

He was exhausted, and besides wanted nothing but for her to fall asleep beside him, he managed to warn her to keep her backup on her at all times before she left.


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter Sixteen_

October 19, 2004 – Brooklyn, NY

For once, sleep came easily. There was none of the tossing and turning, no need to self-medicate or read a chapter out of one of Elizabeth Rodgers' favorite medical journals.

Was it the piece of mind that came with knowing Eames had promised to carry backup? Or was it the weight that had been taken off his shoulders once he realized there was no harm in telling Eames exactly how he felt about her?

The last thought before he drifted off to sleep was the memory of her scent, the feel of her head resting gently on his shoulder and the soft kiss she left on his left jaw-line.

His dreams were frequent and rather extreme: as in one he was being berated by his mother for what she claimed were his infrequent visits. And in this particular dream, his mother decided to show up at his workstation on the eleventh floor, announcing his neglect of her to the entire floor of co-workers in what amounted to a rather unpleasant form of public humiliation.

The dream actually produced enough anxiety in him to wake up; but quickly he distracted himself by once again recounting what it felt like to feel Eames rest her head on his shoulder, to take in her intoxicating scent, to feel her nose press gently onto his neck, and the sensation of her lips brushing over his jaw-line.

More powerful than any drug, he found himself able to settle back into his pillow, slightly aroused, and wishing he'd managed to convince Eames to spend the night.

Still overcome by exhaustion, he was too tired to finish himself off with his hand. The only benefit of not being able to squash his body's physical state was that his mind gave birth to a much more pleasing scenario than his first dream.

For in this dream, Eames had decided to stay the night – and overlook the fact that he wasn't clean-shaven, and that his body was at least five pounds heavier than the last time they'd had a sexual relationship. Eames didn't even seem to mind that he was too tired to initiate anything, as it were; Eames was the aggressor, falling all over him. It was amazing.

Eames piled kiss after kiss around his jawline, hovering over him while she pulled his t-shirt out of his pajama bottoms, her fingers danced around his abdomen and up his chest before piling upon him. He was convinced that many women didn't understand that every once in a while, he really enjoyed laying on his back so that they could take over and climb on top for a change of pace.

For just this once, all his senses were dulled, with the exception of the gradual build up of body tension as his body responded to Eames. Suddenly she pulled away from him, slid off and settled down beside him – sideling up close, cajoling him onto his side so they could wrap around each other facing one another. Well except for the slight awkward height differential, her face buried in his chest, which was now tilting upwards to kiss him all over his neck; he felt like he was on fire. Exhausted as he felt, he could no longer resist wrapping his arms around her waist and finding his way back. His hands grasped each side of her hips and with the little leverage he had, he did what he could to find the right rhythm and angle. He shifted several times until he felt her body respond the way he remembered worked for her. He listened intently to her breath, her hands fell onto his and there was urgency in the way she suggested that his pace continue –

It was after several repetitions that he began to recognize the sensations that indicated that he'd reach his own climax soon. He'd not quite hit that delirious point of no return when he panicked. He remembered that she was no longer pregnant, and that there was no form of birth control at play. He pulled out quickly just in time, (he'd been so caught up in the pseudo reality of it all that he didn't seem to realize that he couldn't impregnate her in dreams), and woke up in a deep sweat.

"Jesus," he whispered, wiping his brow. His t-shirt clung to him uncomfortably, such that he made the executive decision to change his t-shirt and drink a glass of water before returning to bed.

Once back in bed, he couldn't help but wonder if he used the same mental images of Eames from just before she'd left last night, whether he'd be transported into the same dream where he and she could spend hours playing games in his bed. This time he'd remember not to worry about impregnating her.

Alas, no such luck . . .

* * *

He was not a morning person. No doubt about it. He could get up and shock his body into functioning, but not without a decent amount of caffeine. If left on his own, he'd stay up later and later each night. In fact, he found that some of his best critical thinking and creativity started to rise just after he'd digested dinner.

This morning was no different than the others. Thanks to his bladder, he was able to will himself out of bed. Groggy as hell, he found his slippers and robe before making it out to his kitchen and living area. The light was blinking on his VM machine, and he recognized another beeping noise that indicated he'd also missed a call on his cell phone.

He picked up the cell. It was a call he missed from Eames about twenty minutes ago. It was six-twenty-nine in the morning, Eames was sorta a morning person – actually, she didn't seem to be a morning person or a night owl. Did she really start her morning routine so early?

He hoped everything was okay, as he held down the button to get his voice messages. There were at least two missed calls. Both were from Eames. His heart started to beat faster.

_Goren, Richards and Foley got the call early this morning about a floater in the East River. There was ID on the body and the ID suggests that it was Bianca. _

He walked over to his armchair and sat down slowly, forwarding to the second message.

_The ME's going to run some preliminaries this morning, I wanted to give you the heads up. Also, you should know that based on the current of the river, and visible injuries thus far, it looks like she may have taken a fall off the bridge. You can imagine, at the scene they were saying she "pulled a Brodie." And now, they are checking her place to look for a suicide note. So, er, as your partner, you know I want you to take the doctor and captain's recommendation to heart, but I also know that you'd probably want the option to go to the ME's – and because this is not officially our case – um, maybe we have some leeway. But we'll have to fess up to the captain quick. Call me._

Thank you Eames he thought, his mind racing in circles on how to proceed in the most orderly fashion. And within forty-five minutes, he was curbside, (after picking up a handful of suits at the cleaners), showered and shaved.

Eames, on the other hand, looked a bit unkempt. Her hair was drawn into a clean ponytail – and she clearly had not applied any makeup – not that she wore lots of makeup, but if he wasn't mistaken, she looked as if she didn't get a good nights rest.

"Were you able to get in your morning run?"

Eames shook her head as she navigated through morning traffic, "I overslept," she mumbled, "and, as you know, some things take precedent over others."

He nodded before making his offer, "I can take it from here if you want to go visit your nephew. You can drop me off, I'll catch a ride back."

"Thanks," she smiled warmly, "but I'm not taking the back seat on this one."

When they arrived, one of the medical examiners, Elizabeth Rodgers was busy taking notes on what appeared to be a white male, early twenties perhaps? Goren recognized a collection tray that appeared to hold what loosely resembled stomach contents.

He leaned in, squinted slightly, "pineapple?"

Rodgers barely concealed a groan, wedging herself between him and the body, "Several slices of Hawaiian Pizza, so yes there was some pineapple involved, that and a few too many beers."

He nodded, fully intrigued, and just a little pleased that he'd deduced the pineapple, he tried unsuccessfully to lean in to take in a whiff, but Rodgers held him in at bay, bumping him not so lightly with her hip.

"We're here to see Provenzano," Eames cleared her throat slightly, her face slightly amused.

"Provenzano?" Roberts lifted her right eyebrow and frowned slightly, "She must be pretty important to have two "major case" teams on her case. You missed Foley and Richards by some fifteen minutes," Roberts glanced at her wrist watch before weaving by a few examination tables, "you're lucky, I have my guys move um out after I've given one of you a full report."

He followed closely in Roberts wake, while Eames trailed a few paces behind.

Rodgers pulled a chart off the side of an unmarked mobile table, "Yeah," she murmured, "I don't get it. She jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge and died shortly after impact from injuries she received from contact with the water."

Eames shook her head, "Any signs of foul play? I, um," Eames glanced quickly in his direction, "we have reason to believe she may have had help."

Rodgers frowned and crossed her arms, "What kind of help should I be looking for?"

He quickly maneuvered to the table and pulled the sheet back carefully, enough to expose first the left side of Bianca's body – his eyes scanning the skin for any slight bruising that would indicate Nicole's MO, namely, any signs that a syringe was used prior to Bianca's fall, "how about the tox screen?"

"Clean," Rodgers nodded, "what are you looking for?"

"Any track marks?" Eames queried, "any signs of drug use or perhaps an indication that someone helped drug, er, injected her with a substance?"

"Have a look," Rodgers gestured in a rather exasperated manner in his direction, "I found nothing unremarkable, and the tox screen would have given me some indication that there was foul play."

"I don't have to tell you," Rodgers continued as he methodically scanned the opposite side of Provenzano's body, "that the fatality rate is in the ninety percentile, and those that do jump and survive do so because they land feet first at a slight angle, without that, we usually see injuries that our consistent with Provenzano's: crushed vertebrae, and multiple internal injuries which cause death almost immediately after the victim contacts the water. If she survived the contact, she'd either drown or die of hypothermia in the cold water."

"And without any pre-mortum signs of struggle," he started -

"You're going to have a tough row of it all," Rodgers answered before he could finish his muse, "anyway, I thought they found a suicide note."

He knew Rodgers spied the sideway glances they shot at each other.

"Well," Eames smiled at Rodgers, "I guess that means we better be on our way, thanks Liz."

"Anytime, major case," Rodgers replied, a quizzical look still fresh on her face.

When the ME's doors swung shut behind them, Eames pace doubled, "I'll place my bets on who wrote that suicide note."

He groaned in full comprehension, "And I'll bet it was typed."

As soon as they were buckled into her car, he decided to be proactive, "go see your nephew, and I'll track down Richards or Foley to find out about this supposed suicide note."

"Fuck," Eames grumbled under her breath, "I can't believe the tox report – did you get a good look at her externally?"

"Yeah," he shook his head, "but this isn't a coincidence. There are no coincidences when it comes to Nicole."

"But how?"

"I don't know," he sighed in frustration, "but this continues to prove that she fits into a select category of the most dangerous types of serial killers."

Eames turned her head slowly to him, a worried look etched on her face, "She's smart – she learns from experience."

"Adaptable," he scratched his right sideburn, "okay, drop me off up there," he gestured up ahead, about one block away from the station.

"Say hi for me," he added a bit awkwardly, "uh, and you got your backup?"

Eames nodded, "you've got yours, Uncle Bobby?"

He nodded, smiling at the reference, "is that how I'm being addresses at your sister's house?"

"Remember that you are recovering," she smiled up at him before adding, "be safe."

He felt more than a touch of delight knowing that she told her nephew that he was Uncle Bobby, not to mention that he could sense how pleased she was that he'd made the gesture for her to take the time to see him – even though it was her day off.

Once he closed the car door behind him, he nodded and gently rapped the top of her car roof to see her off, fighting the bizarre urge he'd felt only a moment ago.

It was impulsive really, but he felt like planting a kiss on her cheek, and in front of 1PP no less.


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter Seventeen_

October 19, 2004 – Whitehorse Tavern, Bridge Street

While Eames was spending quality time with her nephew, it was time to track down Provenzano's suicide note.

Richards and Foley were the detectives assigned to the Provenzano case, and it didn't take long for Goren to track down Richards and Foley's whereabouts. Apparently, they'd both decided to have lunch at the local watering hole. Location-wise from the station, Whitehorse was one of the most convenient places to get an off-duty drink and some pretty standard pub fare.

There were a handful of detectives in Major Case that didn't think Goren was a loose cannon. Richards and Foley were in a grey-area of sorts, while they certainly were not advocates; they appeared to stay out of the gossip-arena.

"Hi Goren," Foley looked up from a plate of buffalo wings, "how are you feeling?"

"Good," he sat down in the small booth on Richards' side of the table, "thanks."

Richards nodded his head in Goren's direction, "they make you take some time off?"

Goren nodded, "and all I can say is that it's hard watching from the sidelines."

Richards and Foley both nodded back in unison.

If Goren recalled what little information he had on the two detectives, neither of the two had family. Foley transferred to Major Case five years back. Foley had worked briefly with the Feds, was in his thirties, young and had brains to back everything up. Richards was also young, mid-thirties, a bit overweight – which he overcompensated with by dressing to the nines.

"I'm here to talk shop about the body they pulled out of the East River last night," Goren scratched at the stubble on his left jaw.

He watched as Foley's right eyebrow lifted slightly, Richards remained poker-faced, but it wasn't hard to miss the two partners silently communicating over a few subtle facial expressions. Goren was only too familiar with the non-verbal communication that existed between partners.

"Provenzano should be in the filed paper-work category by tomorrow," Richards took a swig from his bottled Perrier.

"Is there something we should know?" Foley queried.

"I heard you found a note."

"We did," Foley wiped his fingers in his napkin, "and given the initial report from the ME –"

"Was the note typed?"

"Wait a moment," Richards interrupted, "you and Eames have been assigned to this case too?"

"Not officially _per se_," Goren explained, "it's just that there might be a connection with another case we've been working on."

"Your partner was less than forthcoming," Richards noted coolly, "it wasn't long after the ID was made on the body, that in turn, the connection was made that your partner interviewed Provenzano as a person of interest yesterday at the precinct. Of course we gave Eames the courtesy call. She met us at the scene of the crime – but gave us very little to work with."

Goren was visibly shell-shocked. Eames was at the scene of the crime in the wee hours of the morning? She never let on, I mean, maybe he hadn't asked, but she never let on.

"So I'm gathering your partner was a little less than forthcoming to you too." Richards added, before wiping his mouth with a napkin and hailing the waiter for the tab.

"No, uh," Goren cleared his throat, "it's not like that, uh, but you have the copy of the suicide note I could take a look at?"

"Sure," Foley answered before adding, "but you understand that we need a little heads up here. Who or what is it about this crime that makes you want to give it a second look?"

"Nicole Wallace," Goren answered briskly, (he expected the non-believers to have their doubts.)

"I thought it was determined that Nicole Wallace was in all probability killed," Foley exchanged a quick glance with his partner, "I mean, I understand they never found a body, but what leads you to believe otherwise?"

"Call it a hunch."

* * *

October 19, 2004 – One Police Plaza

The note, as expected, was typed and printed out from the computer and printer in Provenzano's apartment. Richards and Foley handed over a black and white copy of the note; which could only be described as painfully succinct. (The note was cloaked in generalities, which in regards to his involvement was a saving grace, but in regards to providing details about Nicole Wallace - could be described as the note's downfall. He'd read and re-read the note at least twenty times, but was finding it very difficult to focus.

The latest discovery about Eames that was gnawing at his nerves. Why had she not led on that she'd been to the Provenzano crime scene? What was meant by her omission? Why had she neglected to make any mention of her early morning activities, ones that might have explained the fatigue he'd read in her face, that or potentially they might have satisfied his curiosity into why she'd overslept her morning jog?

Sure, it was easy to assume that she called him once she'd received the news, fell back asleep and overslept. But this new insight helped better explain what he'd observed this morning: Eames rather unkempt appearance, the bags under her eyes, and the clear lack of any facial makeup.

He rubbed at his eye, and read over the note again, trying to focus, (while in his mind, he was waiting for Eames to check in with him soon).

The note, in its entirety was less than one hundred words:

_My application is still pending, but what's the point really? The student loan is another issue at hand, I'm strapped for cash and Hudson won't process my app until I finish providing them with a few missing transcripts. Fuck them. Fuck them all. My parents stopped caring years ago. My last few lovers were just using me – that's all I've been really, a stepping stone 'cross the stream. _

_So with that I shall say my last goodbyes. Now you all must find someone else to step on, this stone has gone downstream._

_-BGP_

He picked playfully at his lip. Eames still had yet to check in, perhaps there was time to go to evidence and compare this note to the typed note Nicole wrote Ella's parents. He felt confident that he'd be able to find commonalities in the way the letters were constructed. Perhaps even an expert would be able to testify (beep beep) –

He picked up his phone. It was Eames texting:

_I'll be in the parking garage in about five minutes. Did you get B's note?_

He shook his head, Eames knew that he hated texting – now just why would she have expected an answer? He smirked, placed his cell in his inside pocket, grabbed a few items, (including the photocopied note), and headed out the back door towards the parking garage.

When Goren opened the door to the floor Eames usually parked on, he was surprised to see that she wasn't waiting for him right by the entrance, flashers on – but it didn't take long to spot her car parked near the far corner.

Twenty feet or so towards her car, he heard someone whisper to him from a direction to his right, he looked beyond a solid cement architectural beam, only to find the shadow of a person strangely beckoning to him with their right hand, "over here."

He stopped immediately, his nostrils flaring, left hand instinctively reaching for his backup.

"Show yourself now," he demanded, his backup ready in hand.

The figure rather boldly stepped out of the shadows. Goren quickly scanned the figure up and down: hands in pockets, complete with a beige trench coat, scarf and brimmed hat which obscured the figure's eyes, but not her hair. Nicole Wallace.

It's possible that his face visibly blanched, as his finger flexed slightly preparing itself just in case he needed to finger the trigger, "hands – slowly, show me your hands," he was working exceptionally hard to control the emotions that were threatening to take over his facial expression and voice.

He watched the smile bloom across her face, a dimple showing, "oh Bobby, look at you. Trying so hard to be the one in control, but I can plainly see how close you are to falling apart before my eyes."

"You will show me your hands now, or so help me Nicole – I will put a bullet through you."

Wallace's eyes narrowed, a pseudo frown playing at the corners of her mouth, "tsk, tsk, Bobby, so testy."

He found himself sweating profusely, mostly from what seemed to be his armpits, but he could also feel the beads building around his hairline, a most surreal feeling in the midst of an unheated, damp cement parking structure. He picked a spot, deciding to wound her; purposefully he took aim at her right shoulder, deciding to clip her for capture.

Wallace clearly read his intention and slowly pulled her hands out of her deep trench coat pockets: her left hand held what appeared be a cell phone, and in her right hand she held a small cylindrical item between her thumb and forefinger. As his eyes trained back and forth between his target area and the item in her right hand, he allowed himself an extra second to train in on the object. He focused just long enough to identify the item as a syringe, before his center of attention returned to her right upper shoulder.

"I've come to say goodbye Bobby."

"You've picked a poor setting," he replied, his eyes never leaving his target, "or by goodbye, do you mean for me to take you out? You must realize that you are in my territory Nicole, surrounded by the NYPD. Now drop the items in your hands."

"Have you ever known me to be suicidal Bobby? Do you not think for one moment that I've other plans?"

He took in a deep breath and twitched as a warm bead of sweat trailed off his eyebrow, "drop the items Nicole. Now."

"I'm here to say goodbye because I won't be calling on you anymore," Nicole announced calmly as she first dropped the cell phone onto the ground, "I've grown up Bobby. I'm straightening out, and I'm ready to accept what it means to live a normal life."

He watched as she dropped the syringe – which slowly started to roll in a circular pattern. Sweat started to tickle down the opposite side of his face, his right eye twitched slightly as he continued to focus all his attention to any unwanted movement, "by now you should realize that you can't have a normal life, you know it and I know it, it's too late for you."

"You're wrong Bobby, I think I've found love. And you? It seems as though you've found love too. Love, Bobby, love will save us after all."

"You can't love anyone Nicole," he blinked repeatedly, some of the sweat stung at his eyes, "you can't have that which was never given to you unconditionally."

"And you Bobby?" Nicole raised her right eyebrow, "Is unconditional love what you got from Mummy – or perhaps Daddy? Is that why you've managed to settle down with a nice little lady? Forty-three? The clock is ticking for you too."

Goren clenched his jaw, "hands on your head, and down on your knees."

"Before you bag me, why don't you celebrate a bit. Go on now, ring Eames to tell her you've finally caught me fair and square - and all by yourself no less." Nicole added, while she slowly raised her hands behind her head.

He shook his head, "nice try."

"I promise you Bobby, I'm not playing around, I never do," Nicole cocked her head to the left, "I've never lied to you, have I? When you dial her, you may be up for a surprise – in fact, you may note that the phone on the ground will respond."

For a brief second, he took his eyes off of Nicole to glance quickly at the cell on the ground. It was the same model as Eames' phone. _What the fuck?_

"On your knees," he commanded, "I'm not lying to you either when I say that I will fire on you if you move even an inch."

"Phone her Bobby, I promise not to move."

Given a few seconds, his brain began to turn rapidly: Eames' text, Eames' car in the parking garage, Wallace in the very same parking garage, Wallace has Eames' phone?

His right hand moved from supporting his backup. Brushing a bit of sweat off of his brow before that same hand slipped into his pocket. Without looking, he brought the phone into his periphery, flipped it open with his thumb and pressed the call button, knowing that Eames was the last person he'd dialed. He frowned inwardly when he thought about how much delight Nicole was deriving from this sick game. His left arm was starting to tremble imperceptibly at first, his muscles tired, but just as he was about to feel relief at the fact that the phone at Nicole's feet was unresponsive, the phone suddenly lit up, and began to give off a familiar ring.

In response, his body froze up, followed by a sickening feeling in the pit of his gut. Nicole had Eames' phone. Nicole texted him from Eames' phone, Nicole -

"Where's Eames?"

"Ah, Bobby" Nicole smiled as wide as a mile, "for being such a brilliant detective, sometimes you are so slow."

"Where is my partner, Nicole - "

"You can't have your cake and eat it too," Nicole stifled a giggle, "looks like you're going to have to choose between boosting your career by catching your most coveted prey or – find your partner."

His left hand was starting to cramp, his bicep and forearm muscles were feeling unsteady at best, "Where is Eames?" his voice now beyond exasperation, his left arm slowly dropping to his side in resignation.

"She's still in the car of course, well not under her own volition I suspect, but uh, good luck, detective, I lost the keys between here and there," Nicole spoke carefully, moving on to her feet now that the gun had been lowered, "you police types are good at breaking into cars though – but I'm not daft Bobby, It's not easy to find love for our types, is it? I knew who you'd choose -"

He didn't wait for Nicole to finish her sadistic verbal assault, bur rather ran immediately to Eames' vehicle, while simultaneously dialing Deakins' cell, "send an ambulance to level five of the parking garage. I need uniform assistance to break into a vehicle. There is a suspect on foot – leaving from the same level. Seal off all entry and exits to the building immediately. Nicole Wallace has been spotted, I had an encounter with her – she's uh, she's wearing a long tan overcoat, hat, red scarf, she was last seen near the back door exit of level five."

He closed his phone when he reached Eames' vehicle, hovering and peering through the slightly tinted windows. From what he could identify: Eames lay unconscious in the back seat of her car.

"Eames," he hollered, grasping the door handle roughly, yanking it back and forth to no avail. Eames wasn't responding, he paused, remembering the syringe that had fallen from Wallace's right hand.

"No," he whispered, his eyes searching through the glass for any signs of movement, any slight motion that would indicate Eames was breathing. His mind was racing – besides his body, what could he use to break into the window?

"Goren!"

He whirled around in time to see the captain and several uniformed officers headed in his direction.

"I need help," he bellowed, "Eames is unconscious, the doors are locked!"

He felt himself being pushed aside, while an officer asked everyone to stand back, he heard the crunch, and watched as the tempered glass shattered into tiny random patterns against the cement floor; the officer brushed pieces to the side, manually unlocking the car. Meanwhile, the unmistakable sound of the ambulance echoed through the garage – for what it was worth, the medics would arrive soon.

He pushed past the officer and brushed glass from the back seat as he squeezed his way inside the narrow compartment, his left hand enclosing her left wrist, feeling for a pulse, anything – his face was only inches from hers when the critical sign of life: soft, warm, moist, dissipated against his cheek, "She's breathing!"


	18. Chapter 18

_Chapter Eighteen_

October 19, 2004 (9:19 p.m.) – Queens, New York

"Have you ever bothered to watch some of these cop shows?" Eames laughed lightly while gesturing towards her "old school" tube television, the natural hue of her eyes appeared softer than he had remembered.

Even now, in the comfort of her apartment, he was still raw from the events of the day. Two trips to New York Downtown Hospital in under a week was a new record for him.

"I don't watch them," he answered truthfully, "which one are you referring to?"

"Special Crimes and Victims Unit: Boston," Eames sipped on a fruit smoothie they'd picked up at a deli on their way back to her place.

"They're not realistic - uh, you know the pacing," he paused, "It's all wrong."

"There's hardly any procedure and virtually no paperwork," Eames laughed again, "not to mention that all of the actors are gorgeous and super fit – and they never look tired. They always look beautiful, I mean, look at those designer outfits!"

Goren shook his head sadly, reflecting upon his own waistline, "This job can get to you."

"I do see more grey around the edges," Eames smiled, "but it suits you."

"Eames?"

"Yes?"

"I don't want to upset you," he paused, "especially considering what happened today - on what was supposed to be your day off. Why didn't you tell me you visited the crime scene, uh, the Provenzano's crime scene last night?"

"I didn't want to worry you."

And that was that. It was a straight-forward answer: simple and quickly surrendered.

He plopped down next to her on her sofa and let her lean into his shoulder. His mind was beyond tired, yet strangely unable to settle as it tried to process what transpired in the parking garage at One Police Plaza.

At present, he remembered very little of his conversation with Nicole Wallace. What he did recall was being consumed by fear. The fear that was born of the knowledge that Wallace had incapacitated Eames was painfully acute - and his reaction was not unlike that in his nightmare: he was rendered completely impotent, wracked with an intense emotion that immobilized his ability to think; which of course, was one of his greatest attributes.

The period after Wallace fled, during the time that he alerted Deakins to his situation, was when his memory became quite patchy. For instance, he remembered only snippets of information: like peering through Eames' car window – seeing her unconscious in the backseat of her sedan.

He remembered being roughly pushed out of the way as the paramedics entered the scene, only to hit the back of his head on what was probably the roof Eames' car. The area of impact managed to produce a "goose-egg" sized lump on the back of his head – small, annoying and quite tender to the touch.

He also remembered when Eames regained her consciousness as the paramedics were lifting her onto a gurney. She was livid and quite adamant about her state of health, "I'm fine, It's just a good old fashioned knock on the head – I've had worse."

No one, (thank goodness), including himself, would listen to her. He remembered trying to conceal a grimace when he saw bruising that ran up the left side of her temple. He demanded, commanded and nearly begged her to go with the paramedics to the hospital – or if she would rather, she could catch a ride with a uniformed officer. He'd take her, but he could not be released at the scene of this particular crime. His presence was needed to answer questions, provide details, in other words: to be the fucking witness.

He remembered fingering the pendant Eames had given him last Christmas. He remembered answering a shit-load of questions, signing paperwork to that effect, and listening to reports of the unsuccessful manhunt on Wallace from the eleventh floor. He remembered waiting for Eames to call him with an update. When she left a text that she was stuck between diagnostic tests, he remembered leaving the eleventh floor and walking to the Whitehorse Tavern a few blocks from 1PP.

* * *

October 19, 2004 – (5:58 p.m.) Whitehorse Tavern, Bridge Street

Goren sat at the far end of the bar as not to draw attention to himself. Just one drink, he rationalized - one drink might take the edge off. Another thirty minutes had passed and he had not yet heard from Eames. He took another sip of brew, fighting the urge to go running to the hospital. Just one more drink, he decided, and then he'd come for her – whether she was ready or not.

As he savored the Belgian brew in front of him, a young blond woman sat down beside him. She was good looking by general standards and dressed as a professional. Being so close to the station he assumed she was a lawyer. When she turned to speak to him, he was certain he knew her.

"Are you detective Goren?"

He nodded squinting slightly, "you work at One Hogan Place, uh, I remember you from Arthur Branch's office?"

She extended her hand before nodding towards a man at the far end of the bar ordering drinks, "Serena Southerlyn, I second chair for Jack McCoy."

Suddenly he heard a phone beep, he froze, believing for a split second that it was his – perhaps it was Eames. Instead, he watched as Southerlyn pulled a cell from her handbag.

"Excuse me," she smiled politely, "but I've got to take this call."

As Southerlyn slid off her bar stool and walked towards the back of the bar, he took another sip of his brew and looked longingly at his phone.

"I know that look. She's not going to call."

He turned to his left, into the direction of the rather gruff voice. It didn't take him but a second to recognize Jack McCoy.

"It's my partner," Goren explained, "she'll call."

McCoy couldn't fight the smile that was taking the edge off his usual frown, "partner. They were all my partners too. Try as you may detective, you can't fool this old prosecutor," McCoy took a long sip of his gin and tonic, "and it's not what's coming out of your mouth. I can read it in your face."

Goren couldn't disguise the glance he shot in Southeryln's direction, who had to be less than half McCoy's age.

"No," McCoy shook his head, "I stopped years ago, several assistants back."

"I'm assuming," Goren swallowed another mouthful, "that it doesn't work."

McCoy's eyes drifted slightly, before looking Goren straight in the eye, "It was wonderful while it did."

"So, you'd do it again," Goren challenged, "if you had the chance?"

McCoy's smile faded visibly, "I don't see how I could help myself, so yes, in a New York minute."

"Then uh, why not win her back? I mean, what's stopping you?"

McCoy's eyes narrowed and then hardened subtly, "not what, but who; the drunk asshole that ran a stop sign."

Goren grimaced, "I'm sorry," he spoke softly, as an uncomfortable silence filled the air between them.

Fortunately the phone in Goren's pocket beeped. He immediately recognized the number, "my partner."

McCoy nodded and turned back towards the bar, leaving Goren to his partner.

"Eames? Yeah. Okay. You'll be released when?" Goren quickly found his mechanical pencil and pocket-sized notebook and jotted down a few notes, "Anything else? Okay. Okay, I'll be there in a minute."

McCoy raised his right eyebrow, "released?"

"Downtown Hospital," he replied quickly, "ambushed by a sociopath assailant."

Goren had already laid down a twenty by his tab and was just easing off his barstool when McCoy caught his left shoulder, "You've been given a second chance man, don't fuck it up."

Goren nodded, unable to meet McCoy's intense eyes, "I'll, uh, I'll make sure - "

"Do," McCoy commanded, "if only Claire had come out of that coma."

* * *

October 19, 2004 (9:57 p.m.) – Queens, New York

Eames' breath fell onto his chest in a comforting rhythmic pattern.

"Where do you think she is?"

He rubbed the skin under his left eye and shook his head.

"We'll get her Bobby, we haven't seen the last of her – regardless of what she told you."

He ran his thumb under his lip, distracted. Jack McCoy's random conversation had affected him. His brain was hashing out a rather important concept. Was it possible? Was it really possible to have a meaningful relationship with Eames outside of work?

"I'm going to bed," Eames stretched, "thank you for the lift," she paused, "and the company."

She pulled away from his chest, but hesitated. The discoloration on the side of her head was much more prominent than it had been in the parking garage.

"When did you last take your pain medication?"

Eames sighed, "I don't know, before you picked me up?"

He sat up and found the pile of items they'd left on a side chair when they'd entered her apartment: inside her purse were the pain meds they'd picked up at a Duane Reade's Pharmacy.

He read the instructions, and returned to her with a capsule, glass of water and a banana he'd found near the pantry, "You're overdue, and it says you should take this with food."

Without any guff, Eames dutifully followed his direction.

"Will you be okay?"

She nodded and smiled, "I'm fine, thank you. I'll remember to take my meds and I'll call you first thing in the morning."

Before he left, she came forward to kiss him on the cheek, he leaned down slightly to accept, "please call me if, uh, you know - for anything."

"I will," Eames squeezed his hand, "Good night."


	19. Chapter 19

_Chapter Nineteen_

December 20, 2004

Over a month had passed since the infamous day when Nicole Wallace knocked Eames out unconscious in the 1PP parking garage.

Thus far, and true to her word, Nicole had remained out of the picture: no phone messages, no undercover plants, no new dead bodies that he was aware of, and thank goodness, no access to his dreams.

In the past few weeks, he'd been officially taken off his interim probation. Likewise, Eames had been officially cleared for duty by her primary physician.

Together Goren and Eames survived another departmental holiday party, and were now but few days from Christmas.

Overall, betwixt them, things were working out nicely. He couldn't place his finger on it, but something had changed. It's as if they'd bypassed the awkwardness from their original break-up and launched back into a nice rhythm. The tension between them had dissipated: he smiled more and found himself laughing at her jokes and somewhat sarcastic remarks. In many regards, it was just like the good old days.

In turn, Eames seemed more at ease too: the worried lines had softened around her eyes and mouth: her sharp tongue was deadly as ever, and her energy level appeared to be back to the level it had been before her pregnancy. Indeed, back to a time when everything between them seemed so much less complex.

Therefore, there was little need for holiday cheer when he could bask in the things that gave him so much satisfaction. For one, he was back on track, consumed with his favorite problem-solving game (a.k.a. work), and two, the one whom he loved above all others was back by this side.

Of course, since the Wallace incident, he'd been consumed with processing another kind of puzzle: a personal puzzle. The seed that McCoy had planted in his head was still germinating. The concept of a meaningful relationship with Eames had not yet been acted upon. But more important than any action was the invigorating concept that before him lay the prospect of possibilities. Indeed, possibilities, (lovely possibilities that had not yet been entertained).

Perhaps Eames knew of these possibilities too? This idea had sparked all kinds of thoughts in his head, so much so, that he could safely say that he felt younger than he'd felt in years.

With the past safely behind him, and the future full of promise, it seemed as though the nightmare had truly passed.

* * *

Thank you to all the reviewers. There was much insight sent my way, and I'd be insane to think that the feedback didn't help keep me on track. I hope to be back in action with a detailed cover of the episode _Blindspot_ - with a bit of a spin that keeps this convoluted story-series afloat.


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